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ASPHODEL. 


“ Quinci si va chi vuole andar per pace.” 

Dante. 







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BOSTON. 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

i 8 6 6. 


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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
Cambridge. 


Vj 

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Os* 

V 


1 



CONTENTS. 

• 


I. Introduction 

II. Morning . 

III. Friendship . 

IV. An Excursion . 

V. Communication . 

VI. Companionship . 

VII. Affinities 
VIII. Solitude . 

. IX. Presence 
X. Awakening 
XI. Courage 
XII. The Voyage 

XIII. A Festival . 

XIV. A Wedding-Night . 
XV. Sunset . 

XVI. Evening . 


Pagk 

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18 

34 

56 

64 

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88 

116 

153 

164 

181 

187 

201 

211 


218 


































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ASPHODEL. 


I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

TT is a fortunate lot to be born in New Eng- 
land ; to find one’s self stepping from the 
cradle out into the fore world of thought, 
stirred by breezes fresh with the freedom of 
humanity ; to know that a hope rises with 
the morning for every one of her children, 
to set only in the night of those earth-sorrows, 
which the rich and poor, the wise and foolish, 
of all lands, may experience alike, in accord- 
ance with the divine economy of God. And 
for these, His chosen ones, the light of fhith 
forever shines, breaking in glory upon the 
mountains of the future. The child of New 
England looks toward the East, saying, Now 


6 


ASPHODEL. 


is the high noon of the world ; we will bid 
farewell to the mists of earlier hours, and lands 
overladen by the history of ages, gathering 
from these what we need, but leaving the rest 
to decay upon the parent soil. Hope and expe- 
rience shall here be planted together, that our 
growth may be lusty, and the vast tree wave its 
benediction to the sunset. The old world bends 
a slow, wise smile over these youthful ardors, 
but the look is kindly; perhaps it is born of 
the knowledge that he who conceives daringly 
shall not achieve sparingly ; perhaps the smile 
is tempered by the thought that all mortal con- 
ception is the germ of immortal fruition, upon 
which another sun shall beam, if not his own. 

Herbert Gregory’s reflections, which we have 
endeavored to express, however imperfectly, 
ran somewhat into this same channel of pride 
and satisfaction with his native land, as he 
passed through the college grounds, one early 
autumn afternoon, toward his father’s house. 
J 


INTRODUCTION 


7 


He had just come back from a tour through 
Europe, the immediate sequence of his aca- 
demic career, and with the benefit of travel 
on one hand, and the happiness of return on 
the other, it was not a cause for astonishment 
that he should appreciate, with a far keener 
sense than ever before, the bounties and sig- 
nificance of his home. To the untravelled, 
if Herbert had been tempted at this time to 
unfold his feeling to any such, we can fancy 
the dispraise of wandering as affecting his lis- 
tener with a kind of disgust, or even doubt of 
his sincerity ; perhaps, with something of the 
same feeling which young readers have, when 
attempting to enjoy the translation of a classic, 
the favorite with their learned teacher, who de- 
lights himself daily over the original, while his 
pupils toil wearily as through stubble-land, per- 
plexed by the enthusiasm they see inspired. 
But Herbert had just quitted his friend Rus- 
sell, now soberly enough settled at home in con- 


8 


ASPHODEL . 


nection with the University. His European ex- 
perience was an affair of the past, yet Herbert 
was pleased to discover that Russell agreed 
with him perfectly in regard to the superior 
incentive (and therefore the superior advan- 
tage) of life in America. It was possible that 
the simple old library, with its spacious window- 
seats, and broad windows looking out among 
the pines, the crackling logs on the hearth, 
and Edith’s chair beside the fire, where she 
had been sitting with them that autumn after- 
noon, had some slight influence upon Russell’s 
opinion, expressed decidedly in disfavor of 
American youth who give their valuable time 
to European travel; but whatever the reason 
might be, it was doubtless sufficiently good, 
since it was sincere. It was a favorite idea, 
also, with Russell, although an eccentric one, 
that even the romance writer could find no 
better groundwork and material than New 
England affords. “ Where,” he would say, 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


enthusiastically, “ where can Spring tread more 
daintily than here ! If we wait long for her, 
there is a rapture when she is at length un- 
veiled, which the March anemones of the Pam- 
fili Doria or the velvet green of England might 
well envy. And Summer, too, a season of 
rich surprises, with days which seem to be 
swept from the Orient, when the whole atmos- 
phere palpitates, and man and beast yield to 
the midnight stillness of noon ; and those other 
days, in quick succession, when the air breathes 
of icebergs, and the sky is pale pellucid blue 
from dawn till dark, when suddenly with an- 
other morning come the clouds, and rain, and 
odors of the sea, brought inland on the wings 
of northeast gales ; and afterward Autumn, 
with the unspeakable splendors of his drapery ; 
and Winter, with snow and firelight, long and 
dreary enough, except for the Fortunate Isl- 
ands of home ; — what more than these could 
a new enchanter desire ? ” 


10 


ASPHODEL 


This ready eloquence of Russell, which he 
did not hesitate' to express to his friend in the 
somewhat florid manner we have indicated, 
naturally served to confirm Herbert in the 
opinion he had already formed. Nor did the 
sentiment of patriotism, if we may dignify his 
half-developed feeling by such a name, grow 
less, but rather stronger, when, after a year or 
two of drifting in waves of uncertainty with 
regard to his career, he at last established his 
own library-fireside at “ The Cliff,” where, 
a few years having passed, we find him with 
his wife Alice and his children, — the stately 
ship of life riding with safety in its serene 
harbor, held fast by the divine anchorage of 
home. 


II. 


MORNING. 

T T was a dawn of Spring. The early breezes 
catching the whisper of Day in the far east, 
awoke the sleepers of the world before his 
beams appeared, waving and swaying the cool 
mists which overlay the face of the dry earth, 
as the wind may play with and flutter the face- 
cloth of the dead. But soon the solemn morn- 
ing purpled and broadened into heaven-wide 
circles, until at length it bloomed upon the 
sky, a vast rose-garden of Divinity. As in 
our narrow household world a lady watches 
through the lucent doors of her^ home garden 
the purpling and widening, and at length the 
rosy unfolding of the broad “Azalia splen- 
dens,” so, for all Nature and the world of 
humanity, blossomed the slow morning, and 
widened into the beauty of broad day. 


12 


ASPHODEL. 


There was no mist in the soul of Alice 
Gregory when she awoke, only the full strength 
of the morning of love ; but as the fatal clouds 
which obscure the sun often arise after a clear 
unveiling of his beams, so came her after- 
thought, and the memory of approaching sepa- 
ration. Herbert was that day to leave her for 
a sea-voyage, in search of health (the true 
talisman of this world’s good, which had been 
shorn from him by the modern Delilah, Over- 
work), and his early hour of departure was 
at hand. She arose hastily, and, while she 
gathered her abundant hair, memoiy came to 
tell her that thus far only the lights of life 
had shone upon her ; to-day its shadows would 
fall, and a touch of the white frost of care, 

\ 4, J 

which leaves silver threads in dark clusters 
such as she was then binding together, would 
mark their advent. Yet even these white 
threads, she remembered, serve to lead us in 

safety, with uplifted eyes, through the diffi- 

o 


MORNING. 


13 


cult passages of tlie world, out into a purer 
existence. 

Clamorous nursery cries aroused her. She 
opened the door leading to her children’s room, 
and found them already impatient to accom- 
pany her to the beach. She had promised 
this happiness, with her bedside kiss, the night 
before. She knew all children are happy on a 
beach ; it is their eternal wonder-world. 

“ Your father is going away, far away,” she 
said, gently stilling their turbulence with a 
quiet manner native to her, “ come with me 
to the shor^ now, children, and see his little 
boat.” 

They ran eagerly to her side, and danced 
about her footsteps as she descended. Herbert 
was at the water’s edge before then!/ watching 
the safe conveyance to the ship of box and bag 
carefully prepared by Alice. He did not per- 
ceive her approach, until the clear voices of his 
children warned him ; then he started, as if 


14 


ASPHODEL . 


with pain ; but in a moment turned upon them 
with a warm, strong smile, such as had 
made the daily sunshine of his wife. Already 
she seemed to feel its brightness pale, and her 
own responsive beams to fade as dreams depart 
before one hastily awakened. He did not 
speak to her, but seized their boy, according 
to his morning custom, kissed his cheeks, and 
puzzled him by crying, “ Here is honey-dew ! ” 
while Ernest clung closely to him, ready for 
the wildest frolic. Allegra, on the contrary, 
timid and tender as a spring violet, stood half 
hidden in her mother’s skirts. 

The little group waited a few moments by the 
' shore, listening for the sound of the returning 
oars to break the stillness. Soon the dip and 
gurgle were distinctly heard, and shortly after 
the red shirts of the boatmen gleamed in the 
mist, and the keel grated on the sand. Last 
words were few, for tears shone in the eyes of 
Alice, and Herbert dared not speak either for 


MORNING . 


15 


himself or her ; but the children’s voices were 
now busy in a strange refrain of laughter, 
making the desolation of parting appear more 
profound than before. As he sprang lightly 
into the boat, little Ernest leaving his play ran 
towards him, shouting, u Papa, I ’m a big boy 
now, let me go, too,” but the oarsmen had 
already shoved away from the shore, and the 
rays of the newly risen sun were shooting their 
busy shuttles through the mist and fringes of 
the rippling waves, until with each oar-stroke 
the boat seemed to lose itself in a glamour 
impenetrable at last to the dazzled eyes of 
Alice. 

Then she turned away, and calling the chil- 
dren, walked toward her home. As she as- 
cended the cliff, she saw the distant sea was 
calm, and the fresh blue was waking on its 
face. But the slow waves breaking below her 
feet ; the knoll radiant with dew-strung grass, 
upon which she stood ; ' the garden gate ; and 


16 


ASPHODEL. 


the blooming, swaying branches above her 
head, — brought a deeper meaning in their 
loveliness to-day, eloquent of the happy, un- 
returning past. Soon she- found herself under 
the broad awning of the hospitable piazza, 
whence she gazed wistfully out, hoping to see 
the departing ship. For a moment it was pos- 
sible to discern the filling sails ; then the winds 
seemed to bear the winged thing suddenly out 
of the world into the golden chambers of the 
East. 

Alice looked abroad over the earth then, 
and watched the day. The dew of youth, and 
the mystery of morning had fled, and the 
approaching sun of noon was ripening the 
dim purpose they foreshadowed. It lighted 
the sharp edges of the world, and gave her 
pain, until she saw the great rocks of Love 
and Friendship fling their broad and kindly 
shadows over her weary land. How beauti- 
ful her morning had been! She asked her- 


MORNING. 


17 


self, “ Shall not the noon, too, be lustrous 
with its skies of deeper blue and fruit sunned 
by beams of the Orient, even though watered 
well by the storm-days of life ? ” 


LICE ceased gazing at the wide horizon, 



x ^ now shut down silently over the absent 
one, silently as shuts the veil of death when 
the play of life is ended ; then she entered the 
house through the long, low windows of the 
library. The place was redolent of flowers ; 
heaps on heaps lay in one tangled dewy mass 
upon the table where Herbert had evidently 
thrown them, knowing this early morning 
labor would find due appreciation. Wild-wood 
favorites rifled from deep hidden nooks, gar- 
den companions, and the common wayside 
friends lay together in beautiful and unwonted 
proximity. 

“ Mamma,” cried Ernest, who was standing 
by, eager to see his mother’s delight over this 


FRIENDSHIP. 


19 


endless mass of blooms, “ may Ally and I bring 
you the vase to put them in?” and, before 
she could reply, the two had scampered off, 
and were again on the threshold with their 
chubby hands clenched over the delicate ala- 
baster of the pretty Warwick model, both 
staggering under the weight and responsibility. 

66 Now, children,” said she, when the pre- 
cious freight was safely landed at her feet, 
“ run to the south room, and tell the lady 
who came last night, that papa has brought 
flowers, and mamma would like her to see 
them.” 

A gliding step on the doorway arrested the 
children in their second flight, and caused 
them to look timidly towards the lovely per- 
son whom their father had told them was to 
be their friend and teacher. 

“ Erminia,” said Alice, after their morning 
salutation, u I remembered the habit of early 
rising which you acquired during our school 


20 


ASPHODEL. 


days. It is not one easily relinquished, hav- 
ing been once thoroughly learned, and I was 
about to send the children to invite you to join 
me. I owe much to you, and not the least 
of my debts is a knowledge of those noble 
verses by Henry Vaughan, beginning, 

‘When first mine eyes unveil/ 

Have you forgotten them?” 

“ No,” said Erminia, as she rescued a bloom- 
ing rose, entangled in a mass of Mitchella vine, 
“ I love those verses still, and better that we 
first came to know each other, as it were, 
through them. But where shall I put this 
exquisite cluster ? ” and she held up, as she 
spoke, a little vase of flowers which her speedy 
fingers had already arranged. 

“ Surely that is beautiful enough for the 
western chamber,” answered Alice ; yet, while 
speaking of the vase, she looked chiefly at her 
friend, who never appeared to her more lovely. 
The slender group of lilies and roses, relieved 


FRIENDSHIP. 


21 


against the deep blue of her dress; the sun- 
shine streaming through her rich “ Venetian ” 
hair, causing the gold gleams hidden there to 
shine ; and especially a sweet simplicity of 
manner, an unconsciousness which is the soul 
of beauty, made her inexpressibly lovely to 
Alice. 

“That room is to be Russell’s, 1 ” she con- 
tinued, “he is an old friend of Herbert, as 
you know well, and I wish his welcome to 
be kindly and affectionate at least, since his 
visit must needs be dull without his compan- 
ion. His little daughter Fanny, who is her 
father’s only earthly joy now, shall have the 
cabinet adjoining for her bedroom. Ernest, 
you may tell Marion to show the way to the 
west room, and arrange it for our guest.” 

Erminia heard Alice’s directions for the 
comfortable establishing of Russell undisturbed 
by feeling of anxiety with regard to his arrival. 
She knew something of his character and his- 


22 


ASPHODEL. 


tory, and although she felt a sincere interest 
in his career, there seemed invincible barriers 
between them, which proximity must only 
widen. His genius (for the world worshipped 
it as such) ; his pride of family, and conse- 
quent position in society ; the recent loss of 
a wife, lovely and beloved, eminent for talent 
and devotion to her home ; the flattery of 
strangers, and caresses of private circles, — 
all these things, contrasted with her own es- 
tranged and unregarded existence, made Er- 
minia feel not only the distance between her- 
self and Alice’s distinguished guest, but she 
saw that the cares of her position would not 
be slight if she were able to fulfil the duties 
she desired to assume. Much of Alice’s time 
would necessarily be occupied with him, she 
thought, or with the friends he attracted to 
the house. She determined, therefore, to 
make it her duty and pleasure not only to 
guard the children’s welfare but to oversee 


FRIENDSHIP. 


23 


the business of the household, so far as this 
should prove a possible and real service to 
Alice. These duties she felt would shelter her 
somewhat from the labor of receiving visitors, 
the present condition of her mind rendering 
her unfit for social enjoyment. 

At this juncture of their lives the value of 
the school friendship they had enjoyed be- 
came doubly apparent to Alice and Erminia. 
They were not obliged to grope blindly, while 
endeavoring to adapt themselves to each other. 
Alice felt the presence of her friend as a con- 
tinual balm and consolation ; while for Er- 
minia, left solitary in the world by her father’s 
death, the delicate sympathies of her compan- 
ion were ever ready to understand and shield 
her. 

So different are the manifestations of grief, 
one could not easily divine from the appear- 
ance of Erminia that the floods of sorrow had 
gone over her. Habitually calm, and in* 


24 


ASPHODEL. 


structed under the watchful eye of her father, 
who lived the life of a recluse, she wore daily, 
over a spirit swayed by every wind of joy and 
every note of sorrow, a well-poised character, 
which enabled her to act without too great 
hesitation, and without subsequent regret; and 
where a superior judgment came to her assist- 
ance, she recognized its power and rejoiced 
in its repose. Her self-reliance became nat- 
urally more strongly accentuated when her 
earthly guide and instructor was withdrawn 
from her side. It veiled her from the eyes of 
the world, simply, yet as securely as the arts 
of Prospero could; and sometimes that was 
accounted to her as pride which was only the 
strength and height of true humility. 

Erminia was scarcely twelve years old when 
her mother died, and two maiden aunts came 
to reside with her father and herself. They 
found the young girl somewhat restive under 
their unaccustomed restraints, and after a few 


FRIENDSHIP. 


25 


passages at arms in which, to say the least, 
they were but poorly seconded by her father, 
they were convinced that the tasks of sub- 
duing the child and comprehending her par- 
ent’s idea for her education transcended the 
limit of their ability. They willingly resigned 
the father and daughter, after a few months 
of endeavor, to a loneliness which was evi- 
dently far too agreeable to satisfy the afflicted 
vanity of the two ladies. 

In truth it was an unspeakably happy pair. 
The child who appeared so wilful and way- 
ward under uncongenial control became with 
her father, what he believed her to be, the 
most docile of pupils, and humble as a lover. 
She surprised him by her precocity in cer- 
tain branches of education, in those especially 
which she had chosen ; for he desired to give 
her a certain freedom of selection, provided 
the study, whatever it might be, were per- 
formed with integrity and vigor. 


2 


26 


ASPHODEL. 


Such was their life, while the moons waxed 
and waned, and the child became a woman, 
and the autumn grew to winter. At last a 
night shut down in which the silentness of 
death overspread the beloved features of the 
old man, and Erminia was left solitary in the 
quiet cottage. 

After a time she was able to recall the 
happy hours of devotion and faith she might 
never know again, and so companion her dim 
solitude. And then came the old school friend- 
ship for Alice, giving color to her life once 
more. That, indeed, was like a calm harbor 
always, in the tempestuous sea of years which 
seemed to outstretch before her. 

In a letter to Alice, at this time, she wrote : 
“ Seven years ago, hpon your marriage day, 
I grieved and wept. In my girlish weakness, 
I feared I had lost something, being ignorant 
of the divine mystery of married love to en- 
large the possibilities of life. After these years 


FRIENDSHIP. 


27 


of experience I find how much I have gained, 
and when I think of you, I feel myself sur- 
rounded by loving hearts You may 

perhaps wonder when we meet to see me 
wearing none of the habiliments of grief, and 
I must anticipate your surprise by explaining 
that it was the wish of my dear father to ban- 
ish such array. A woman folded in crape 
always made him shudder. ‘ That person 
throws a gloom over my day ! ’ he would ex- 
claim, ‘Does she mean to closet herself with 
death, and receive no higher companionship ? 
Do these people believe all the sorrow of the 
world belongs to them ? 9 

“ 6 Erminia,’ he said, a few days before his 
death, when hardly conscious of his words, 4 1 
remember how she looked the day I asked her. 
She did not say, “ Yes,” but turned her face 
away, and the quick blush stained her cheek 
far down till the ruffle hid it, and a tear 
dropped on her blue robe as she laid her hand 


28 


ASPHODEL. 


in mine. Erminia, don’t forget how much 
I like to see you wear blue ; your mother wore 
blue ! ’ I think, after this, he spoke little, but 
lay as if peacefully absorbed in reminiscence, 
until the last solemn hours, when he roused 
himself to discourse on holy themes. 

“ To-morrow I leave this old house. It 
seems like coldly forsaking all I love best ; I 
suppose, the entire solitude is not good ; at 
least so my aunts endeavor to persuade me, 
and for a time I must yield my wish to theirs. 
But I . can confide to no one the joys of the 
divine companionship I receive while walking 
in the paths he made, and following his van- 
ished footsteps through the little wood. Here 
we are not separated; he draws me to his 
supreme height, and' every leaf, and the en- 
lightening rays of each expiring day seem like 
whisperings of his spirit close to mine. 

“I hardly know how I have been enabled 
to say this, even to you, dear Alice, but it shall 


FRIENDSHIP. 


29 


stand, that you may know when we meet and 
talk cheerfully on other themes, perhaps, that 
life has become possible, and my heart is at 
peace. Already received into the saints’ rest 
through the love of my vanished one, my spirit 
cannot be disturbed by storms at any lower 
level. 

“ I shall soon return to this place, I can- 
not be away. Old Nancy clings to me as if I 
were her all, and will cajole blossoms into the 
dead garden before I see it again. Here she 
comes already with the first snowdrop. Fare- 
well.” . 

There were frequent letters between the two 
ladies subsequent to this ; more frequent, per- 
haps, on the part of Erminia than of Alice, 
who found the cares and pre-occupations of 
her life too absorbing to make it easy to write 
often. Her delinquencies in this respect were 
made good, however, by a three days visit she 
found time to pay her friend in company with 
her husband and Russell and his wife. 


30 


ASPHODEL. 


Wliat happy days they were! How often 
Erminia, afterward, sitting alone by her cot- 
tage window, overlooking the undulating mead- 
ows and the shifting shadows on the corn, 
would recall the sweet, pale face of Russell’s 
wife, and his anxious loving glance ; or at 
times would remember, less pensively, those 
long hours under the pines, when the new 
poem was first read which had since made 
Russell famous; his merry jests, too, would 
come back to her, and the dance of responsive 
light in the brown eyes of Alice, and Herbert. 

Once, as the twilight faded from the land- 
scape, so impalpably that day seemed to pause 
and invite the weary children of the world 
to rest their hearts in its ineffable beauty, 
she sat and looked, and thought upon her 
friends. Suddenly a voice like Russell’s, cry- 
ing “ Edith,” as if across the gulf of time, 
came to her. Then she knew Edith was dead, 
and that Russell stood alone. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


31 


FROM A LETTER OF ALICE TO ERMINIA. 

u Do not refuse our request, dear Erminia ; 
it is necessary for Herbert’s health that he 
should go away, yet it will in a measure allevi- 
ate the pain of his departure, I am sure, if he. 
feels you will be at home here during his 
absence. Beside, for our children’s sake, I 
must urge it. I cannot send them away to 
school while there is a hope left me of your 
care and instruction. Perhaps this argument 
may prevail with you before every other. The 
necessity of occupation is the true spur to 
energetic life, and you are rigorous in the 
demands you make upon yourself! There- 
fore I feel you will find no uncongenial sphere 
for your labors here with my children. It has 
long been a part of my creed that the parent 
cannot make the best instructor of the child. 
A fresh mind impelling the intellect through 
unwonted channels, and a fresh heart whose 


32 


ASPHODEL. 


sympathies forerun the religious aspiration of 
the growing soul, may be like a torch and 
guiding hand to lead it through the mysteri- 
ous passages of life, where else it may stumble 
blindfold. Perhaps the child fears to confide 
to one • so wise as his parent appears to him, 
lest his fancies, and those strange winds of 
feeling which sweep across the sunny plains 
of being, may be regarded as mere foolishness. 
But what can he not lay in holy confidence 
upon the newly erected altar of friendship! 
Beside is not religion aspiration ? And what 
can quicken a child’s nature more truly than 
contact with a new individual, who speaks to 
him from a heart of noble endeavor? Thus 
is reverence awakened, that keystone by which 
the arches of life are strengthened and their 
beauty sealed 

a I must not omit to tell you that Herbert 
besought Bussell to come with little Fanny 
and make his home here during the autumn 


FRIENDSHIP. 


33 


and winter. It is yet more than doubtful if 
he accedes to our arrangement, but we shall 
not allow this new plan, even if it prove feas- 
ible, to interfere with the retirement of your 
life while here. 

“ I hope for you and await you, my dear 
friend ! Your presence will alleviate the weight 
of the difficult burden I must bear.” 

Therefore, Erminia went. 


2* 


C 


IV. 


AN EXCURSION. 

HE days passed swiftly and peacefully 



A at “ The Cliff.” Alice had scarcely 
allowed herself to hope for the repose which 
succeeded her arrangements. They had been 
made with reference to the well-being of others, 
— the happiness of the result was felt by none 
more deeply than herself. 

The skill and method of Erminia in her new 
duties were recognized almost immediately, 
through their effect upon the children. Her 
direct influence was exercised for a few hours 
of the morning only, but it was sufficient to 
render them more thoughtful and circumspect 
in their relations to each other during the day. 
The confinement of the school-room gave a 
zest to the freedom which succeeded, and she 


AN EXCURSION. 


35 


joined the happy flight out into the air with 
as much rapture as either of her pupils. This 
rule for school hours as well as play, once 
quietly established, was seldom infringed upon ; 
for Alice knew the advantage of a healthy 
routine was not to he lightly estimated. 

One morning little Fanny ran into her fa- 
ther’s room much earlier than usual, with all 
the impetuous eagerness of a child who has 
a story to tell, and finding him already seated 
at his desk, although it was half an hour top 
early even for the children’s breakfast, she 
curled up on his lap, saying, “ 0 papa, I am 
so glad you are ready, because now I can tell 
you a secret ! Perhaps I sha’n’t tell, after 
all, but you may guess, papa, if you can. I 
love somebody, — somebody beside you, dear 
papa ; will you try to guess who it is ? ” 

“ Why, perhaps,” he said, trying to make 
the difficulty appear as great as possible, “ per- 
haps it is your teacher, Fanny.” 


36 


ASPHODEL. 


u Well, papa, I don’t see how you ever 
guessed ; but you can’t think how good she is, 
and when we have been obedient she will sing 
to us sometimes, and — 0 dear papa, how I 
wish you would ask her to sing to you, it is 
so beautiful to hear her! And what do you 
think she did for us yesterday, when we had 
stayed a little too late in the woods, and were 
hurrying home from our walk in the afternoon ? 
Why, you see, there had been a great high tide, 
and the ocean had washed right over the short 
path and left a little pond. We tried to get 
round it, and tried and tried till Ally almost 
tumbled in ; then at last she pulled off her 
shoes and stockings and tucked up her dress 
and carried us over one by one in her arms. 
Was n’t that kind, papa ? My turn came last, 
because I am the tallest, so she gave me her 
shoes and stockings to carry. I thought I held 
on tight, but I almost dropped them once when 
I looked down and was thinking how pretty 


AN EXCURSION. 


37 


the water looked splashing up round her feet. 
But good by, papa ; there’s the bell, and I must 
run, for I hear Ernest and Ally in the hall al- 
ready.” And down his little girl slipped and 
disappeared before she heard, much less an- 
swered, any further questions. 

An hour later, when Russell came into the 
breakfast-room, he found Alice and Erminia had 
just entered. It was somewhat later than their 
customary season, and as he took Erminia’ s 
hand he observed it to be slightly hot, and 
that she wore a heavy shawl drawn about her 
but her manner, which was more gay and 
sprightly than usual, forbade special inquiry 
after her health, and the three were soon busily 
engaged discussing a new path which Her- 
bert had long contemplated and desired, to 
lead more dii*ectly to the shore, which Alice 
•had determined, with Russell’s assistance, to 
complete during his absence. It was not pos- 
sible for Russell to banish the thought of Er- 


38 


ASPHODEL. 


minia, however, in connection with his child. 
It was she who had incurred the risk of cold 
and fever to save others, and so quietly that 
none might know of it. If it had not been for 
my thoughtful, affectionate little Fanny, he 
said to himself, this kindness would have been 
forgotten ! He observed with deep feeling 
the slight hectic of Erminia’s cheeks, and the 
signs of evident sleeplessness. He determined 
as soon as possible to find some opportunity 
to testify his gratitude, and in future to ob- 
serve more closely a character which attracted 
him in proportion as he felt himself repelled 
by its reticence. 

At this moment he remembered they had 
long been talking of a day’s excursion to a 
famous rock-ledge in the neighborhood, called 
by the native dwellers near the sea, “ The Pi- 
rate’s Cross,” and he concluded to ask the la- 
dies immediately to appoint a time, the earliest 
possible, for their intended ramble. Then, at 


AN EXCURSION. 


39 


least, he hoped to find opportunity, without too 
many words, to testify to Erminia something 
of the feeling with which her behaviour had 
inspired him ; to approach her as a friend, that 
she might feel he would be ready to stand by 
her in any emergency her lonely life should 
present, a true responsible arm of defence in 
time of need. He would not say this to her, 
but he longed to win her confidence, till she 
should gently lean upon his judgment and his 
kindness. Almost as speedily as these thoughts 
flashed through his mind, he communicated 
his plan for the excursion to Alice, who ac- 
ceded to it at once with pleasure for the sake 
of both her guests. She fancied Erminia had 
been too closely confined of late, — but at this 
first hint, as if the idea contained nothing which 
deeply concerned her, the one for whom they 
were both planning slipped quietly away to her 
pupils, leaving her friend as usual to answer 
for them both. 


40 


ASPHODEL . 


On the appointed morning Russell was in 
excellent spirits. Everything favored his plans. 
The neighbors, if such they might be consid- 
ered, the nearest estate lying at least two miles 
distant by the road, had been asked to join the 
expedition, and were already assembled in their 
country wagons, suitable for rough woodland 
travel. The ladies of the house had not yet 
made their appearance, and the visible impa- 
tience of Russell was hardly exceeded by that 
of the children. Several times he arranged 
and re-arranged the shawls over the seats of 
the empty wagon waiting at the door. Once 
he walked quickly across the hall as if he 
would ascend the staircase and summon them, 
but returned as quickly to the piazza, and, 
gathering the children about him, seemed de- 
termined to make the best of a bad case, and 
to amuse himself in amusing them until the 
time for starting should arrive. He had scarce- 
ly resigned himself to this new occupation 


AN EXCURSION. 


41 


when Alice ran swiftly down the stairs, her eyes 
aglow, and with a slightly heightened color in 
her cheeks. In a moment she was in the wa- 
gon and the children beside her. 

, “ But Erminia ? ” said Russell inquiringly. 

“ She will not go with us to-day,” was Alice’s 
quick answer. 

“ Did you say Erminia would not go ? ” he 
replied, as if the possibility of this disappoint- 
ment then first occurred to his mind. 

He was about to question Alice more closely, 
when the thought suggested itself, that he had 
no right to demand a reason she did not choose 
to give, — and what was Erminia’s absence to 
him farther than a disappointment, because he 
must defer still longer the expression of his 
gratitude for her constant and devoted care 
of his child. Therefore recovering himself al- 
most immediately, he merely remarked, “ 1 
hope she is well this bright morning ? ” 

“ 0, quite well, I assure you,” said Alice ; 


42 


ASPHODEL. 


66 look up, children, and let us wave our fare- 
well ! ” 

The eyes of the little party were immedi- 
ately raised to where Erminia stood to watch 
their departure, upon the balcony over the pi- 
azza; and if any doubt with regard to her 
health remained with Russell after Alice’s 
frank reply, it must have vanished speedily 
when he glanced up with the others to say, 
“ Good morning,” and met her glowing face, 
as she kissed her hand to the children. He 
did not fail to see the blush which threw 
its delicate color over her cheek, but he failed 
to see himself as the cause of it. 

“ Let us lead the way now,” said Alice, and 
they drove speedily down the sweeping avenue, 
greeting their friends as they passed with an 
invitation to fall into an impromptu procession. 
And while the merry company whirled on to- 
ward the rendezvous, even the rear-guard forgot 
the discomfort of their somewhat dusty position 


AN EXCURSION. 


43 


in the gleaming magnificence of the morning 
sea. But it was long before Russell recovered 
the tone of his spirits. He was disappointed 
his plan should have failed, and felt half in- 
clined to blame Alice for its non-fulfilment. 
Yet her serene sunshine, together with the 
contagious gayety of the children, helped to 
disperse his clouds; although the chief en- 
chantment lay perhaps, after all, in the exqui- 
site loveliness of the autumn morning. In 
this aftermath of summer, one must indeed be 
unimpressionable not to discern that Nature 
claims certain days for her own, quite as much 
as during the heat of July or the jewel days of 
June. 

As they passed a well-known farmer’s house, 
Russell perceived two men just starting with 
their guns for a day’s shooting. An easy 
lounging gait was the only expression of their 
enjoyment; but the boy who followed them, al- 
though evidently bent on a close imitation of 


44 


ASPHODEL. 


the sang-froid of his elders, could not restrain 
the gayety of his eye nor the occasional sharp 
whistle of a lively air. 

At length, as the wagons entered the wood- 
land where they were soon to stop, Alice could 
not but observe how pretty the effect was of 
ithe winding procession, now hidden among 
pines and cedars and now emerging upon 
cleared spaces, or suddenly coming upon trees 
with low entwining branches, and to see the 
arms of the young girls thrusting aside the 
stiff fingers of the evergreen, or pulling the 
long boughs of coralline barberries during their 
slow progress. When farther advance became 
at last impossible, no one was more active for 
the general good than Russell. He managed 
to send a party forward on foot with the bas- 
kets for their rural feast, and to interest Alice 
in conversation with one of her neighbors ; and 
thus having performed what he considered his 
duty on the occasion, he escaped with the 


AN EXCURSION. 


45 


children by a slightly diverging path towards 
a favorite point he knew well, near the sea. 
He felt a desire for solitude ; and remembering 
a little cove where the children would soon 
become absorbed in play, he felt he could be 
utterly alone while watching them and the 
ceaseless dashing of the waves. He did not 
know how little he really wished for loneli- 
ness ; — how he distanced himself from the 
friends he saw around him, only to seek the 
presence of another. It was wisely said by 
Jean Paul, u We could not endure solitude 
were it not for the powerful companionship of 
hope, or of some unseen one,” and to-day the 
“ unseen one,” whom they had left behind, rose 
like a sun upon his spirit. He sighed to think 
her light might shine for other systems, but 
never, it seemed, upon his. To him it only 
gleamed from afar, as a distant planet may live 
and burn in the very radiance of our sunset, 
and tell us of strange limitless spaces made 


46 


ASPHODEL. 


glorious by beams which we can only distantly 
divine or know in dreams. 

The hours of the day passed quickly with 
Erminia. Alice had urged her to accompany 
them as strongly as she dared ; but those few 
words when they parted the night before, “ Rus- 
sell wishes you to go, dear Erminia,” made it 
appear impossible. What could she be to him, 
she questioned, that he should ask her to go ! 
To a person so lonely, and dependent upon 
herself, a spark of kindness was a flame, and 
she scarcely dared suffer one to alight upon 
her heart. She thought Russell could hardly 
find cause to occupy himself much about her ; 
but he was Fanny’s father, and she could 
perhaps make his burden less difficult by great 
carefulness for his child. She fancied between 
herself and one so justly distinguished there 
was a wide distance, yet she listened to no 
conversation with warmer enthusiasm than to 
his; and although she seldom replied, her 


AN EXCURSION. 


47 


whole being was for the time absorbed in hear- 
ing and recalling his expressions. How happy 
she was in Alice’s household ! if only to be 
near a friend so beautiful, noble, and great as 
Russell, and able in any way to minister to 
him ! Yet she would never willingly trust her- 
self where his gratitude, which she could not 
but observe, should find any warmer expres- 
sion than his calmest moments would approve. 

She arose on the morning of this excursion 
strong in her determination and full of joy. 
The happiness of benefiting others, the feeling 
that she was in some dim way of use to one 
who had given much to her both from the in- 
spiration of his books and from his visible pres- 
ence, this made the light of every day more 
grateful to her eyes. To-day, when she felt 
how rich were her possessions, and when the 
instinct came with the strength to keep them 
as they were, if possible, untouched, unstained 
forever, what wonder she appeared beautiful to 


48 


ASPHODEL. 


Russell as she waved them good speed from 
the balcony, or that her quiet manner, as she 
moved about the house superintending some 
new domestic arrangement for Alice, contained 
a certain happy vigor which was scarcely na- 
tive to her. She saw and did not forget the 
kindness of her friends, which had been testi- 
fied that morning in Russell’s look of disap- 
pointment and in Alice’s tender persuasions. 

The day had already melted into the misty 
gold of afternoon before she completed her 
labors. Then she lay down upon a couch 
which stood across the recess of the broad li- 
brary window and watched the sea. It shone 
and glimmered under the broad cedars, which 
stood like sentinels upon the garden’s edge, 
gradually burning and purpling in the sunset 
rays. And while she lay, in her fatigue she 
slept and dreamed. 

She thought she was lying under the large 
cedar close to the verge of the cliff, and Russell 


AN EXCURSION. 


49 


was by her side. The children were far below, 
chasing the birds upon the sand. Presently 
Russell said, “ May I play to you ? ” and seiz- 
ing a violin he played until they seemed to 
float together on a golden sea of music, and the 
violin to become a boat, wherein they lay ris- 
ing and sinking to the harmony of the waves. 
Suddenly the sea dashed with a sharp discord. 
She awoke to find the breeze had swung the 
half-opened door heavily back. Then she arose 

■4 

and shook away her dream. 

The gloom and white mists of evening were 
abroad, when the sound of horses’ feet told of 
the return of the party. Erminia appeared 
to bring both light and warmth to the chilly 
group as she ran to welcome them, and throw- 
ing open the wide hall-door allowed the blaze 
of the bright wood-fire to stream into the dusk. 

After the brief story of the day was ended, 
and they had finished the evening meal, they 
found their way into the drawing-room again, 


3 


D 


50 


ASPHODEL. 


where no one was inclined to talk, and Er- 
minia fancied the silence was growing irksome. 
Therefore she went to the piano, which her 
late occupations had prevented her from touch- 
ing, and played softly, almost as if to herself, 
yet for others too if their mood chimed with 
hers, while the glimmer of the half-risen moon 
began to pervade the darkness of the room. 
She played on and on, until the absolute quiet 

of her listeners and the dreamful absorption 

*■ 

into which the music drew her, caused the 
consciousness of their presence at length to 
pass away, and she seemed again to float on 
that divine sea of harmony which rocked her 
in her dream. Alice’s love for music would 
have kept her spellbound if the children had 
not required her presence, and caused her soon 
to leave the room; but Russell sat still as 
breathing marble in the broad window, watch- 
ing the moon as she slowly arose out of the 
sea over the dim horizon and laid a bridge of 
silvery lustre almost to his feet. 


AN EXCURSION. 


51 


Presently Erminia stopped, and her low, 
sweet voice, compounded of all gentleness, be- 
gan a song of summer, while her fingers made 
the instrument speak like the rippling of 
streams to bear her company. Again she 
paused, and then the voice — surging as if a 
storm of passion had swept across its gentle 
strength, leaving its sad vibrations — arose 
once more. Russell listened, for this strange, 
sad tone thrilled him, and he heard these 
words : — 

O tell me not so fair a sun may shine, 

And pour his living beams alone on me ; 

Full well I know the glory is divine, 

And all his undimmed path the world can see. 

Ye happy lovers clad in ecstasy ! 

Sway in your bliss and touch the speaking heaven ! 
Garner joy’s ray to illume life’s stormy sky, 

Earth’s shadows fall even where her love is given ! 

But I shall ever gaze upon my star, 

And know the glorious lustre cannot pale, 


62 


ASPHODEL. 


Through present dark his spirit gleams afar. 

Nor passing heavenward can such beauty fail. 

The fountain of my love shall feel no bars, 

But ever flowing ever be at rest ; 

For what am I that I should clasp the stars. 

Or think their rays are only for my breast ! 

Yet I could sigh and lean my weary head, 

And lose all self upon the heart of love* 

And loving, live, as if the world were dead, 

And every voice as sweet as notes above. 

Then turn away from me thy glowing face ! 

My heart is weak, — this frailty is of earth ; 

No longer would I feel that tender grace, 

Lest I must stifle joy in his young birth. 

Alice glided noiselessly back into the room, 
while Erminia was singing these verses. Im- 
mediately to her clear vision their meaning was 
unfolded, and she shot one anxious glance 
towards Russell. The song was ended now, 
and he arose and came to the piano. As he 


AN EXCURSION. 


53 


approached Erminia and spoke, she started. 
“ How strangely pathetic that song is,” he said 
gently, and almost tenderly, as if he would 
make amends for having disturbed her. “ I 
think I did not quite comprehend it. Have 
you the words there ? I should like to see 
them and to know the writer’s name. Love 
and suffering find expression in them, and 
that pain of lonely, unrecognized affection, 
perhaps the saddest cry the voice of hu- 
manity can raise! Can you find them for 
me?” 

“ No,” said Erminia, speaking very low, 
“ they are not written. The words were my 
own. I did not think them altogether sad,” 
and she turned from the piano as she spoke, 
with a clear, unclouded smile, which seemed to 
comprehend him in its sunlight and what 
might lie beyond. 

Russell saw, as he had never seen before, the 
ineffable tenderness of her face, — a face that 


54 


ASPHODEL. 


knew sorrow, but knew the eternal power of 
love, and he became humble as a little child 
before the light of her spirit. He answered 
her in a tone as low as her own, and which 
even Alice could not hear. When Erminia 
arose a moment after to close the instrument, 
he said more audibly, “Will you teach me 
something of your wisdom? I would come 
to you daily, as the children do.” And she 
answered, as she gave him her hand to say 
good night, “I have no wisdom. I believe 
my sympathies make me a child with the chil- 
dren, but I know no other.” 

“ That is what I need to learn most, I t hink ,” 
he replied earnestly. “ There is a joy too, 
deeper than the joy of children, which can out- 
live all sorrow, being immortal. Your song, 
sad as it is, shows me that you know what 1 
mean. Teach me this also, Erminia, through 
your sympathy.” 

As he spoke he turned away abruptly, and 


AN EXCURSION. 


55 


left her standing there. She listened to his 
feet as the echoes died upon the stair, and then 
turned lightly and passed through the moonlit 
hall to her own room. 


V. 


COMMUNICATION. 

TT'RMINIA lay down upon her bed that 
night, happy, but sleepless. She allowed 
the wide window to invite the moonbeams, 
that, lying herself in shadow, she might watch 
the sea and sky. Was not this an instinct of 
her life to lie thus in shadow, watching and 
adoring the loveliness and glory which encir- 
cled her ? To her wakeful fancy the moon be- 
came a living type of human purity, and the 
snowy clouds which blossomed in her path, the 
lilies of the heart which expand in answer to 
the touch of her silver rays, the messengers of 
her love. “ For these lilies of life,” she said, 
“ above all blessings, I praise thee, 0 God, for 
now their fragrance fills my heart.” 

And Alice in her lonely chamber, not far 


COMMUNICA TION. 


57 


away, waited long for the benediction of the 
night. Her busy thought had also distanced 
the idea of sleep, and she sat for an hour by 
her silent window while desire cried, Peace! 
Peace ! — But there was no peace. Indeed, 
she was strangely disturbed. A fear which had 
vaguely floated in the atmosphere appeared at 
this time to take form, and her mind recoiled 
before the picture it presented. She could not 
make the cause sufficient nor altogether clear ; 
but the dread of pain, almost the dread of joy, 
for one so tender and impassioned, and of such 
lofty aspect as her friend, this, it seemed, she 
could not endure alone. “ Erminia and Rus- 
sell ! ” she said, half audibly. “ Surely he does 
not know how strong his influence is! He 
must be careful, rigorous, with himself! If 
Herbert were only here, he could speak to him 
and all would be well. Ah, Herbert ! if you 
were but here!” And Alice, habitually so 
controlled, the very abode of serenities, there 


58 


ASPHODEL. 


in solitude poured her sorrows out, and the 
need and agony of her heart found voice. But 
at length she was enabled to turn in humility 
to the only fountain of our peace, and the 
loving and lonely one slept, wrapped as it were 
in the arms of faith. 

On the poet’s study-table a candle burned 
till long past midnight. The fatigues of the 
day had been exorcised by Erminia’s singing, 
and when he entered his own room for the 
night, the temptation to write to Herbert was 
not to be resisted. His dislike of letter-writing 
in general was forgotten for the time, because 
he wished to speak with his friend. Bussell 
seldom wrote to anybody when he could help 
it, and his conscience did not always sleep be- 
fore the unanswered letters on his desk ; but 
to-night his pen ran lightly forward, as if to 
greet the heart that would come to meet it. 
At last, looking for a moment off the page, he 
saw the moon-rays gleaming on a silver dish 


COMMUNICA TION. 


59 


filled with dahlias, which in the early morn- 
ing Fanny had gathered and placed upon the 
casement ; thence the light glimmered down 
upon the floor and shone upon the brazen 
clasps and illuminated leaves of a disordered 
collection of precious old volumes he had left 
astray there. They seemed to rebuke his can- 
dle and his occupation. He put the light has- 
tily out, like one suddenly discovered in an 
unworthy deed. When the beams expired and 
the weird moonlight brought sudden silence 
to his heart, he felt as if he had been drown- 
ing celestial music in dissonant cries, and he 
advanced toward the open window to enjoy the 
scene in its perfection. But as he turned, his 
glance fell upon a favorite portrait, now irradi- 
ated by the moon, where the face,- although 
perfectly familiar, took a vigor of expression 
from the white light which startled him. 

It was an ancient picture, the artist’s likeness 
of himself; and yet no flattery of comeliness 


60 


ASPHODEL. 


was in it, but a kind of strength, like a vision 
of angelic might, as if the painter had once at- 
tained the summit of the mountain of aspira- 
tion, and stood there long enough to recognize 
the possibilities of his being. It was truthful 
too, neither hiding the signs of failure nor of 
pain. In the young, abundant locks, the white 
threads of sorrow, those blossoms of the eternal 
spring, were not altogether unseen. Over the 
pale square brow, as if upheld by Grecian pil- 
lars, through the fire and far-gazing of the dark- 
brown eyes, and in the firm endeavor of the 
mouth, not untried but resolute, Russell read 
now more plainly than ever before, “ I will, I 
dare, I suffer, — I am strong : for yonder lies 
my strength.” 

Then the poet replied, as in a vision, “ I will, 
I dare, I suffer, — would that I were strong ! ” 
And desire rising into prayer drew a new 
peace down upon his being, and at length he 
too slept as God’s children may. Temptations, 


COMMUNICA TION. 


61 


shrinking but not conquered, lurked and lin- 
gered. Only endeavor chained to aspiration 
can shame the Devil back to his grim home. 

The moonlight became pallid in the dawn ; 
the days moved round to nights. Waning and 
paling to the sight of earth, like many a joyless 
life, the moon faded and died. But the faith- 
ful stars only shone the brighter, and served to 
guide Herbert, the wanderer, back. He had 
grown restless and was bound towards home. 
Was it the call of that strange hour of a 
night heavy to Alice with new suffering, which 
touched him where he slept on distant seas, 
and drew him to his own ? 

The autumn sun was shining with undimin- 
ished splendor one October afternoon, when 
Herbert returned to “ The Cliff.” He entered 
the house unheralded, and, hastening to Alice’s 
room, found her there, as he had scarcely dared 
to hope, alone. After the first shock of sur- 


62 


ASPHODEL. 


prise had passed, they rehearsed together the 
long hours of their separation, with their min- 
gled experiences. 

“ I felt myself so well that night,” he said to 
her, “ that my conscience fairly allowed me to 
think of home. After the thought, the very 
breath of the earliest steamer was more spicy 
and healing than the airs of the Indian Islands 
themselves. But what of Erminia ? ” he said, 
when the first moments were past ; “ we have 
not spoken of her, nor of Russell ; where are 
they both this fine afternoon ? ” 

Alice seized the opportunity wliieh this ques- 
tion afforded to unfold the history of her hopes 
and fears : she found there was not much to be 
told after all, except she explained her anx- 
ieties, which were perhaps unnecessary, for 
Erminia. 

“ What if she should learn to love Russell, 
while he, forgetful of all but Edith, could not 
see that his gratitude was misinterpreted ! 


COMMUNICA TION. 


63 


Dear Herbert, do be watchful for them both, 
and put Russell on his guard if it be pos- 
sible ! ” 

“ Don’t be too anxious, Alice. It is fortunate 
I came home when I did, or I might have 
found my Mary turned into a Martha before 
my very eyes.” 

Alice laughed a little childlike laugh over 
her troubles, which seemed to disappear before 
the present sunshine as marvellously as the 
Genii of the Arabian Nights fade in their mys- 
terious veil of vapor. She was half inclined to 
believe, with Herbert, that her fancies were but 
air. 

“But we will be very careful and observe 
them .both well,” she said, as they gave their 
children a good-night kiss in the nursery : “ we 
are but children of few more years and little 
more wisdom, and must help each other.” 


VI. 


COMPANIONSHIP. 

“T\0 you know this flower ?” asked Rus- 
sell that same afternoon, as he suddenly 
emerged from what Herbert had laughingly 
christened “ The Forest,” a small clump of 
evergreen trees not far from the house, and, 
stopping Erminia in her walk, held a spray of 
purple Gerardia towards her. 

“Yes,” she answered quietly, taking the 
flower he extended for her acceptance, and 
fastening it in her dress, “ I know it well, but I 
have not discovered its favorite haunt yet near 
‘The Cliff.’” 

“Let me show you where it grows. I see 
you are out for a walk this glorious afternoon.” 

“ Thank you ! ” The words were simple, but 
her heart rose with a sudden surge of happi- 
ness, as if in answer. 


COMPANIONSHIP. 


65 


They advanced a moment in silence, until 
suddenly the shore and far horizon broke upon 
their view, and with them all the dread and 
limitations of life seemed swept away. They 
ran forward swiftly now, towards the ocean, 
talking like two children, the healthy scene 
causing them to forget self-consciousness and 
every unnatural’ restraint, while they leaped 
from point to point upon the rocks, clamber- 
ing down to the very edge of the sea. 

Their voices chimed in natural cadence with 
the birds and waves as they called to one 
another from every new point to observe a fill- 
* ing sail or purple fleck thrown by the flying 
clouds. Above them towered the cliffs, below 
and afar stretched the sea. Presently, from 
sheer fatigue, they perched, to rest awhile, 
in a fissure where the red granite was still 
warm from the midday sun. Looking up- 
ward, the rim of the rocks seemed cutting 
the blue sky above them. Erminia thought 


66 


ASPHODEL. 


of Egypt, and said : “ This is like a vision of 
Thebes.’ 1 ’ As she spoke, a short-billed curlew 
shot, with a wild, sharp cry, from a cleft vein 
not far from where they sat, and floated 
away, a speck of silver into the blue. 

“ The bird is jealous of your speech,” Rus- 
sell answered, “ and would remind us that this 
is New England, our home.” 

They lingered in their warm shelter, until, 
looking towards the nearest cove, they saw 
a fleet of boats, resembling a flock of birds, 
emerging from their harbor. The fishermen 
were starting for a night at sea, each man in 
solitude with his lantern and his boat. The 
tiny skiffs clung together as long as compan- 
ionship was possible ; at length they saw 
them separate to seek lonely anchorage on 
the wide, inhospitable deep. 

“ We will not go for Gerardias to-night,” 
said Russell, breaking the long silence they had 
kept while observing the boats, “ it is time we 


COMPANIONSHIP. 


67 


returned. These fishers tell me it is later than 
I thought ; but the sun has so stained the 
earth with lustre that his yellow rays may 
still serve to light us home. We call these 
fishers lonely,” he continued, half audibly, as 
he turned to go, “ but they have homes in 
which their hearts can rest even while they 
themselves are tossed upon the sea ! ” He 
spoke these last words to himself, as it were, 
yet they were hardly uttered when he feared 
lest Erminia might have heard them. She 
was finding her way lightly over the some- 
what difficult path, with her eyes fixed upon 
the glowing West. Certainly she did not re- 
spond, yet presently she rested a moment until 
her companion should overtake her, and ac- 
cepted the hand he offered, in order to balance 
her steps, not as if it were necessary to her, but 
rather as a pledge of companionship to him. 

It was altogether dark when they reached 
the house, and the lights from the broad win- 


68 


ASPHODEL. 


dows flung their welcome beams far down 
towards the shore. Herbert was lying in wait 
to give them a merry greeting, had not their 
approach been so quiet as almost to surprise 
him instead. 

44 Come in,” he shouted heartily, when at 
last they appeared, “ one would think you con- 
sidered yourselves fit subjects for a romance. 
I have been trying to repeat the old proverb, 
4 Better late than never,’ but it grew pretty 
musty after an hour’s thinking of it from time 
to time. Alice has gone to put the purple 
beacon in the eastern window, fearing you had 
missed your way ; I must tell her of your 
arrival.” And having called to Alice and told 
her the good news, he drew them both under 
the hall lamp that he might 44 take proper 
diagnosis of their cases,” he said , 44 and judge 
of Alice’s good keeping.” 

The inspection proved remarkably satisfac- 
tory. Erminia stood with hat off and the 


COMP A N ION SHIP. 


69 


rolls of her shining hair half escaping to her 
shoulders, with cheeks aglow and her dark eyes 
uttering a gentle remonstrance against being 
looked at, a picture of happiness and health ; 
while Russell, forgetting he was there to be 
gazed at, seemed to absorb the light into his 
dreamful face as he stood between his friends. 

Herbert’s quick glance did not fail to de- 
tect this unwonted and beautiful lack of self- 
consciousness in Russell. Formerly he had 
sometimes seen him in this mood, when for 
many days together he scarcely quitted his 
study, never wandering farther than the pine- 
trees upon which the room opened, and un- 
interrupted, save when Edith entered, or at 
evening, when he himself would occasionally 
join them * and talk over days passed upon 
the “ Wengern,” or in olive-circled Perugia. 
Then his mind was pre-occupied with his work ; 
but his ordinary condition was quite different. 
Sensitively alive to the presence and opinion 


70 


ASPHODEL . 


of others, conscious of superior talent and 
of personal beauty, he possessed a certain 
measure of vanity, which rather increased than 
lessened his general attractiveness, and -seldom 
allowed him to be self-forgetful in the world 
of society. Herbert believed in his friend’s 
genius as strongly as Russell himself, and liked 
to observe him as he was to-night, held by a 
power superior to his intellections; yet he 
questioned eagerly what that power might be, 
because with the thought, the suggestion of 
Alice returned uneasily to his mind. 

“I will let you both go,” he continued al- 
most immediately, “ when you have told me 
where you have been so long.” 

“ Why, my dear fellow,” said Russell, “ the 
sunset has been a pageant, splendid beyond 
our imaginations, — a scene never to be for- 
gotten,” and while he endeavored to give Her- 
bert some idea of the glory of it from the 
point of view they had enjoyed, Erminia 
slipped away to prepare for the evening meal. 


VII. 


AFFINITIES. 

r J^HE mysteries of affinity overarch our 
happiness like a blue heaven. The ho- 
rizon expands around us, and the vulgar limi- 
tations of the day resolve and mix into a 
speck within our wide eternity. All is made 
ours. There is no reserve ; nothing, however 
veiled, that shall not be revealed to the double 
sight of love. 

Russell did not say these words as he walked 
across the neutral-tinted hills in the warm sun 
of an autumnal noon. The thought lay only 
half-fledged, as it were, in the sacred silence 
of his heart. He did not know that when he 
spoke he listened but for one reply, nor that 
the bleak November days seemed calm as 
summer because he walked with Erminia over 
the broad and glittering fields. 


72 


ASPHODEL. 


The days and weeks had thus far worn away, 
and a voice of winter whispered in the wind 
before Herbert could gather courage to tell 
Alice that a double reason prompted his re- 
turn ; and the hoar-frost traced, with his deli- 
cate white pencil, weird and vanishing figures 
upon Bussell’s balcony, before he questioned 
himself whether he loved Erminia and would 
ask her to be his wife, or if he must leave 
the hospitable home where she had become 
essential, perhaps, to his happiness. He did 
not believe Erminia loved him ! Why should 
she? She knew his love for Edith, — could 
she understand the necessity of his heart 
which cried out for her , while his angel was 
forever with him unforgotten? Yet he was 
thirsting for companionship, for fireside cheer, 
for her calm presence. She was able to lead 
him to his better self; and when at remote 
intervals they had passed an hour together 
and felt a perfect unison, he became like one 


AFFINITIES. 


73 


renewed and strengthened. Her image lulled 
him when he slept and stood beaming with a 
lustre worthy of Edith’s love when he awoke. 
It would be a second death in life to know 
he must lose her forever! Yet what claim, 
what hold had he upon her ? How frequently 
she seemed to vanish at his approach ! How 
slight were the opportunities she allowed for 
any speech! But each held little Fanny by 
the hand, and day by day the unconscious 
child strengthened an electric bond which 
Bussell could not break, yet dared not think 
indissoluble. 

“ I will go and urge her to it with all the 
pent-up passion of my soul poured upon hers ; 
yet,” — and the man became irresolute at 
the thought, — “ if she should stand with her 
clear face and shining eyes, saying , 4 You are 
Edith’s!’ — no! no! I cannot ask her now. 
Time must help me win ; I will wait and labor 
for her love.” 


4 


74 


ASPHODEL. 


The autumn sun was high that morning 
when this thought of Erminia had at last 
taken shape in his mind. Russell was already 
wearied with struggle and indecision, although 
he had just arisen. The early morning mail 
lay as usual upon the table, yet he left it un- 
examined until he was fairly ready to descend 
for the day. Then he tore the envelopes 
open carelessly and threw the letters down 
half unread, except one which he perceived 
among the last, from the shores of the Pacific. 
This was evidently of importance, and he read 
it thoughtfully. It was from a man who 
had taken the trouble, though a stranger, to 
inform him of the doubtful trustworthiness 

i 

of the agent he had selected to superintend 
his business in that far land, and the letter 
urged him to come out immediately, to judge 
of the state of affairs for himself. What 
could he do ? This property was Fanny’s, 
left her by her mother, and must be guarded 


AFFINITIES. 


75 


more carefully than if it were his own. He 
stood long, revolving the subject uneasily in 
his mind. “ And if I must go,” he said to 
himself finally, “ I must go in silence. At 
least, when I return, if ever, there can be no 
more indecision. We shall both know clearly 
then what is essential to our happiness.” 

Full of uneasy questionings he descended 
slowly towards the breakfast-room. As he 
crossed the hall, Herbert came out of his own 
room hastily and met him. “ My dear lad,” 
he said in his healthy, cheery way, always like 
an invigorating breeze to Russell, “I see we 
are both late together this morning. Of 
course the queen bees have departed long 
ago; but let us make the best of a bad case 
and have a bachelor breakfast by ourselves. 
Things could hardly have happened more con- 
veniently in one way, however, for I have a 
plan which I wish to consult you about, and we 
shall not find a better time than the present.” 


76 


ASPHODEL. 


Russell was only too happy to be rid of his 
own sad cogitations for a while, and listened 
willingly to what Herbert had to say. 

As soon as they were fairly seated at the 
table, he said, “ these quiet weeks at home, 
you see, have, together with my voyage, set 
me quite on my legs again. I am perfectly 
well and strong now, and Alice and the chil- 
dren could hardly be more comfortably estab- 
lished, especially while you are with them, 
than they are at present. I am convinced 
therefore that I ought,” — here he hesitated. 

“ Why you seem to be making preparations 
for getting rid of yourself, — out with it, 
Herbert, let us have the worst as soon as 
possible.” 

“0, there’s no ‘ worst’ about it, I hope; 
only, to tell the truth, I feel bound to join the 
army. I had an offer of a colonelcy before 
I went away last summer for my health, and 
I decided then, if I recovered, I would do what 


AFFINITIES. 


77 


I could, when I returned, for the great cause. 
I told Alice about it this morning, and next 
to telling her I believe I dreaded telling you, 
Russell ; — but her behavior made everything 
that should be done look easy. You know 
our life together has not been one of explana- 
tions, and I really think she was prepared for 
my resolution, and felt relieved after we had 
talked over our plans. She anticipated this 
when I first went away from home, and she 
feels as I do, there is nothing left for a true 
patriot in my position but to go. Yet the 
thought of our speedy separation is not easy. 
I have promised to leave for the camp two 
weeks from to-day. ,, 

There was a pause after Herbert had done 
speaking. Then Russell sighed heavily and 
said, “ Perhaps I also ought to have done as 
you have, Herbert, but I have lived too much 
and too many years in my study to make an 
efficient soldier in the camp, or perhaps I try 


78 


ASPHODEL. 


to think so when I look at my little Fanny, 
who would be utterly lonely without me. 
Beside, I hope the work I have accomplished 
at home is not without its value. You are 
only to be congratulated upon your heroic 
resolve ; the resolution alone brings you the 
finest laurels. As for Alice, I do not fear for 
her. I see from your face what a glorious sup- 
port she has been. She is a woman worthy 
to live in this great spring-time of liberty! 
But now, Herbert, I ought in turn to unfold 
the plans to you which have been suggested 
by my letters this morning. We need to take 
counsel together to-day, if ever, and much 
more since your unexpected departure is so 
near at hand. Certainly I must do nothing 
which can interfere with your determination.” 
And with a sudden half-defined hope that 
Herbert would not think his case an urgent 
one, he drew the letter he had just received 
from his pocket and laid it before his friend. 


AFFINITIES . 


79 


“I wish you would read it,” he continued, 
“ and give me your candid opinion.” 

Herbert took the letter and read it through 
in silence. Russell watched him eagerly, that 
he might not lose the expression of one spon- 
taneous feeling its perusal should awaken, and 
he did not fail to observe a shadow of anxiety 
which at first overspread his face. But his 
clear, concise reply, true as Herbert was, gave 
him satisfaction with the pain. The demon 
of indecision was exorcised. 

“ I think you should go by the next steamer, 
for I see no real reason for delay. Perhaps 
in this way you may avoid the bitter cold and 
storms of winter on our coast. We shall 
leave a lonely household, it is true, very lonely, 
but I do not think the necessity for remaining 
sufficiently strong to counterbalance the ne- 
cessity for your departure. Justice to the 
interests of your child calls for your immediate 
absence. You will be back probably before 


80 


ASPHODEL. 


midsummer returns,” he added, observing 
the shadow which crept over Russell at the 
thought. “We shall count upon this. Indeed 
you can hardly be detained later than the 
early spring, unless matters are far worse 
than we believe.” 

Herbert said no more, waiting for a word 
of response from Russell. He was fully aware 
that some feeling beside the apparent anx- 
ieties of his position agitated his friend, and 
he lingered, hoping for a word of question- 
ing or confidence with regard to Erminia. 
He had become at last entirely convinced of 
her feeling for Russell, and he could not 

escape something of Alice’s disquietude, when 

* 

he found himself the agent, as it were, di- 
viding them perhaps forever. Russell, on the 
other hand, sat unconscious of his friend’s 
thought, listening for him to speak again, 
hoping for one word which might keep him 
from this fatal voyage and give him time 


AFFINITIES. 


81 


to follow where his aspiration led ; time or 
opportunity to dare. 

They sat long in silence. Then Herbert 
suddenly remembered that affairs called him, 
and hastened to leave the room. 

Russell felt like a doomed man when he 
saw Herbert depart. Hitherto the days had 
slipped away, spurred in their course by a 
fresh unconscious love which he recognized 
now, a joy he had never hoped to know again. 
He had wrapped himself in the glory of his 
dream, and had known no awakening save a 
disturbing fear which the reticence of Er- 
minia’s manner sometimes caused him to feel. 
Now the moment was come when he must 
lose her, perhaps forever. The future was 
black before him with clouds of uncertainty, 
the present a living torture. If he were only 
sure of her regard for him ; if the perfect 
smile he had seen break like a morning of 
love upon her face, when in some happy mo- 


82 


ASPHODEL. 


ment they had talked together forgetful of re- 
straint, — if that were his, were born for him, 
then he could find voice. He could not help 
observing that Erminia avoided him, and 
hedged herself behind her marble grace, say- 
ing, as it were, “ If Russell would come to 
me it must be by a path of his own creating. 
I am not like Edith, one whom the world 
admires, and who is fitted to stand by his side 
among the worshippers who seek him.” Yet 
by the fireside, and in the quiet ebb and flow 
of their daily life at “The Cliff,” Russell 
learned instinctively to recognize the wealth 
of her simple life, and Erminia to see in him 
a growing distaste for the allurements of so- 
ciety and a longing for the continued shelter 
of a home. She did not think of herself, 
however, in relation to him, otherwise than 
through Fanny, who clung to her as if parting 
were a thing impossible. 

Russell saw the river of time flowing on, 


AFFINITIES. 


83 


and he knew liis departure was imminent. It 
was just that he, and not another, should tell 
Erminia of his journey. “Not Herbert, not 
Herbert,” he repeated to himself; 66 1 must 
tell her; beside, I must entreat her still to 
watch over Fanny, — to — to be a mother to 
her. I cannot take the child away.” 

In the struggle between his dread of an 
interview and the fear of delay, the morning 
of that day slipped by. When the hour of 
dinner was announced, Russell pleaded occu- 
pation as an excuse for his absence from the 
family circle. 

He had returned to his own room soon after 
Herbert quitted him, and it was mid-afternoon 
before he again left it. Believing the house 
to be solitary as usual at that hour, he de- 
scended then, and crossed the library, with 
the intention of taking a rapid walk by the 
sea. As he stepped from the long window 
opening upon the piazza, Erminia stood there, 


84 


ASPHODEL . 


with her back toward him, where she had 
been occupying herself since dinner, appar- 
ently tying up the honeysuckle which the 
autumn winds had displaced. She had un- 
fastened the body of the vine in order to 
arrange it more perfectly, and had thrown 
the tangled net of scarlet berries and sphere- 
like purpled leaves over her shoulders till 
they swept the ground behind her. The sun 
was glancing upon her radiant hair and spark- 
ling on the berries and the leaves. 

Russell stood still. How beautiful ! was his 
first thought; and his second, “Yes, I see it 
all, this is my appointed time ! ” 

He spoke to her then, and she, with a child- 
like gladsomeness, told him she was happy to 
see him out of school at last, and feared he 
had a very hard master to keep him so long ! 
But observing quickly that he did not respond 
to her mood, she waited quietly and continued 
her work until he should reply. 


AFFINITIES. 


85 


“ I wish to tell you,” he began, after a pause 
during which Erminia partly disengaged her- 
self from the vine, “that I am compelled to 
go away from ‘The Cliff,’ for a long time. 
Business calls me, business for Fanny’s sake ! 
And I wish to leave the child wholly to your 
care.” 

As he spoke the vine slipped away from 
Erminia, and she stood motionless, looking far 
over the sea. 

“ I shall be gone until midsummer. May I 
leave the most precious treasure I have on 
earth with you? I must indeed travel west- 
ward, but I shall be ever turning to the east. 
I feel myself moored here where my child is, 
and — ” 

Ill-concealed emotions were already strug- 
gling in Russell’s voice ; again he asked, 
abruptly, “ May I leave her, this treasure, to 
you, Erminia? May I think of her, for my 
sake enfolded in your arms ? ” 


86 


ASPHODEL. 


He waited eagerly for her reply, but she 
stood now with her face turned quite away 
from him, and simply said, “ You may ! ” 

How lonely the, shore became that afternoon 
to the solitary walker. A creeping mist 
shrouded the distance, and the slow roll of 
the perpetual waves upon the beach was like 
Nature’s metronome of silence. The solitude 
of death rushed upon him. The wind, playing 
over the pine-groves as its harp, whispered, 
“ Alone ! alone ! ” and the ripples, as they 
curved towards his steps, answered in their dim 
monotone. All was sad and low as his own 
heart, wherein there was no hope. Sadly he 
paced the sands, listening only to the chant of 
his worn spirit. Only that ; no light, no hope. 

But when at length the shadows grew the 
deepest, there arose a beacon on the headland. 
It stretched its glowing fingers out towards 
him, as if to guide the wanderer and rekindle 
his faint hope. 


AFFINITIES. 


87 


To-morrow passed, and still to-morrow ; on 
the fourth day Russell was to sail. Alice and 
Erminia superintended the arrangements for 
his personal comfort, while he set the house 
of his affairs in order, for departure. Herbert 
had concluded after mature deliberation to 
close the establishment and leave “The Cliff” 
until summer should return, and had been 
sufficiently occupied himself in finding com- 
fortable lodgings for his family in the city. 
As yet, however, there was no sign of removal 
about Alice’s household. All was as usual, 
except a calm, like the calm of grief, and a 
sacred stillness seemed to pervade the place. 
When Russell and Herbert were at home, 
however, these two .women, radiant with their 
love and endeavor, half cheated those others 
into forgetfulness by a courage which was 
sometimes insufficient for themselves. 


VIII. 


SOLITUDE. 

YT appeared that Alice’s own suffering was 
A merged during those bitter days in the 
unspoken grief of Erminia, for whose comfort 
she felt she could do nothing. Not even 
Herbert could understand her friend as she 
could, and the tears sprang to Alice’s eyes 
as she watched that marble pallor return, at 
one time native to Erminia’s face, but lately 
driven away by the rosy dawn of happiness. 
None but Alice, passing late into her bedroom, 
could hear the heavy sob breaking on silence, 
and none but she knew the early feet which 
crossed the lawn and visited the shore, hoping 
for the morning. Nor could another know 
that the coming separation had revealed a 
truth hitherto concealed from all, even from 


SOLITUDE . 


89 


herself. Why should Alice speak of these 
things, and to whom ? Herbert needed cheer, 
therefore she might not speak even to him ! 
Beside, would it not seem like betrayal ? She 
murmured only, “ The heart knoweth its own 
bitterness,” and remained silent. 

The morning of Russell’s departure arrived. 
As he awoke, his first thought was, Erminia 
and Fanny are my world, and to-day I leave 
them both, without the courage to anticipate 
the future. If Erminia will but give me one 
ray of hope before we part, it shall be my hap- 
piness, my beacon, till I return. 

0 dark and blind ! Where are the seeing 
eyes to perceive your child wrapped and shel- 
tered in almost a mother’s tenderness, — to 
behold the joy lighting the being of that 
woman at your approach, — to interpret the 
very reticence of her demeanor when you 
have been most rash ? Do you then wait for 
speech, that dull and partial medium, when 
you feel the spirit within you vibrate? 


90 


ASPHODEL. 


Russell heard the voice and longed to act 
upon it, but the hours flew by and left him 
still' irresolute. He could not know the agony 
they brought to her who was called self-sus- 
tained. In his after-life there came a period 
when he knew no mortal can be sustained in 
loneliness but by the grace of God, our self- 
hood is so weak, and that the birth from suf- 
fering, through grace, is peace. 

The hour of departure arrived. The little 
group clustered around the porch to bid Rus- 
sell good speed. He bade farewell to each, 
and took Erminia’s hand the last, as if hop- 
ing till the latest moment for a sign, he knew 
not what. But when he lingered for a look, 
she stooped and kissed Fanny, who stood be- 
tween them, and so veiled her eyes. Once 
more he pressed her cold hand ; — at length, 
when she raised her head, Russell was gone. 

In another week Herbert also took his de- 
parture ; going proud and strong, with a noble 


SOLITUDE. 


91 


soldier’s bearing. Then the women and chil- 
dren were left alone. 

For the first time Erminia knew the shadowy 
wood through which the feet of the solitary 
may pass. It was not a solitude like that 
which followed her father’s death, when every 
moment was peopled with the sweet memories 
of his life, nor that solitude of the child which 
is “the power of God, and the mystery of 
God ; the echo of a far deeper solitude through 
which he has already passed, and of another 
solitude, deeper still, through which he has 
to pass ; reflex of one solitude, — prefiguration 
of another.” The way was dark and she 
walked gropingly. She seemed to be passing 
over a lofty, uncertain bridge, with a. gulf of 
blackness reaching down infinitely on either 
hand, and there was none to help. And a 
voice said, This is the prefigured time, the 
true death. 

Erminia often said to herself that she ex- 


92 


ASPHODEL. 


pected nothing from Russell; that he owed 
her nothing ; on the contrary, she had de- 
rived much from him. She only remembered 
he was her ideal, no other was so lofty in her 
eyes ; his presence was her life, his absence, — 
vacuity, solitude. He had often spoken kindly 
to her ; why did he not say one word at least 
before departure ? Why did he leave her in 
silence now, if his previous speech and manner 
signified anything? Could the sun be false 
in his course? Yet why did he leave her 
without one regretful word ! Surely it would 
not have been unmanly to express his feeling ! 

One afternoon, as these turbulent thoughts 
rose and surged within her, and the tempest 
would not be allayed, a hand tapped at her 
door, and she heard a merry voice say, “ Where 
is my pet ? Here, — all alone, — may I come 
in?” and Fanny, half peeping as she spoke, 
sprang into Erminia’s little room, looking out 
on brick walls, and nestled up into her lap. 


SOLITUDE. 


93 


“ You are cold here, and must come with 
me, my darling, : ” she said, with a protecting 
air, as if she felt herself the guardian. 

Then Erminia wrapped the child in her 
wide opened arms, and dropping one hot tear 
upon the bright curls, knew she 

“ Touched God’s right hand in that darkness.” 

* * * * * 

It was strange for Alice to find herself liv- 
ing once more in town. Years had passed 
since she had known much of people or their 
habitations outside of her own family and her 
humble village friends ; and when the inevita- 
ble bustle of removal was completed, the days 
stretched blankly before her, holding anxiety 
out as her dull companion. Soon, however, 
Herbert’s letters, punctual as the morning, 
began to arrive, and they enabled her to live 
much in camp with him, while Ernest and 
Ally demanded also a large share of her at- 
tention. She must now keep double watch- 


94 


ASPHODEL. 


fulness over them, — must learn, suffer, and 
enjoy with them. She discovered that she 
must live with her children as well as for 
them, and love and pray, aspiring to be one 
with them in childlike earnestness. 

How shall we repeat the story, told in Her- 
bert’s daily letters, of his life in camp, — of its 
thronging occupations, its wild excitement, its 
vast solitude ? All these elements made up 
the stirring history, — one that many of us 
know by heart. Why should I recount it 
here, rehearsing in cold words an experience, 
at the memory of which we hold our breath ? 
Let me insert instead some verses written by 
a friend of Herbert, a Colonel like himself, 
which possess the merit of having been writ- 
ten on the spot, in the speaking silence of the 
night. 

“ Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

As I lay with my blanket on, 

By the dim fire-light, in the moonlit night, 
When the skirmishing fight was done. 


SOLITUDE. 


“The measured beat of the sentry’s feet, 

With the jingling scabbard’s ring ! 

Tramp ! tramp ! in my meadow-camp, 

By the Shenandoah’s spring. 

* * * * * * 

“ Tramp 1 tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

The sentry, before my tent, 

Guards, in gloom, his chief, for whom 
Its shelter to-night is lent. 

“I am not there. On the hillside bare 
I think of the ghost within ; 

Of the brave who died at my sword-hand side, 
To-day, ’mid the terrible din 

“ Of shot and shell and the infantry yell, 

As we charged with the sabre drawn. 

To my heart I said, ‘Who shall be as the dead 
In my tent at another dawn ? ’ 

“ I thought of a blossoming almond-tree, 

The stateliest tree that I know ; 

Of a golden bowl ; of a parted soul ; 

And a lamp that is burning low. 

“ O thoughts that kill ! I thought of the hill 
In the far-off Jura chain : 

Of the two, the three, o’er the wide salt sea, 
Whose hearts would break with pain ! 


96 


ASPHODEL. 


“ < Halt ! Who comes there ? ’ The cold midnight air 
And the challenging word chill me through; 

The ghost of a fear whispers close to my ear, 

< Is peril, love, coming ‘to you ? ’ 

<< The hoarse answer, * Relief/ makes the shade of a grief 
Die away with the step on the sod. 

A kiss melts in air, while a tear and a prayer 
Confide my beloved to God ! 

“ Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 

With a solemn, pendulum swing ! 

Though 1 slumber all night, the fire burns bright, 

And my sentinels’ scabbards ring. 

“ ‘ Boot and saddle ! ’ is sounding. Our pulses are bounding ; 
‘ To horse ! ’ And I touch with my heel 
Black Gray in the flanks, and ride down the ranks 
With my heart, like my sabre, of steel.” 

Russell’s experience during these days of 
winter must not pass unmentioned. The 
gloom of parting seemed to be pictured on 
the face of Nature as he left the hospitable 
doors where the flowers of life had blossomed 
again even for him. The sleet and snow pat- 


SOLITUDE. 


97 


tered against the narrow windows of the car- 
riage, leaving small out-look except upon the* 
black miry footprints around the stations as 
they passed. At length night shut down; 
and, utterly wearied with the excitement of 
the last few days, his brain confused by the 
jolting of the cars, he fell into a dead- 
ened condition, when his perceptions became 
inert, yet the restful obliviousness of sleep 
was absent. He did not fairly revive until 
he found himself the next morning actually 
standing on the pier and waiting to approach 
the steamer whither he was hound. Then 
the feel of the salt sea refreshed his senses. 
He saw the blue just breaking over the sky 
and scattering the morning mist, the harbor 
gay with white-winged boats, the pier crowded 
with hurrying men, anxious women, and wide- 
eyed children, with luggage and dogs in pro- 
portion. A parrot was screeching in a cage 
at his right hand, an infant nursing at his 


5 


o 


98 


ASPHODEL . 


left ; in front he sa,w a vivid panorama of the 
bay, with its hospitals, islands, villas, and 
light-houses; while in the far distance, blue 
as the wing of a Brazilian butterfly, stretched 
the broad ocean. But he moved hastily for- 
ward to his destination now,* hardly knowing 
that he observed these things. The steamer 
was already crowded, and his own state-room, 
engaged many weeks previously, he found in 
the possession of a lady and her daughter. 
What should he do ? He went to the cap- 
tain ; but the poor man, already half-crazed 
with the number of like complaints, said he 
knew nothing about it, and could do nothing 
if he did. “ More people want to go than 
there ’s room for, and they ’ll have to settle 
it among themselves.” This answer, half to 
himself and half to Bussell, was all the satis- 
faction he could get. It certainly was not an 
encouraging beginning. He returned there- 
fore to the cabin, and there sat the same lady 


SOLITUDE. 


99 


whom he had seen in his state-room. He ac- 
costed her, after a moment’s deliberation, and 
asked if number twenty-two were her state- 
room. 

“ Yes, it is,” she replied, evidently a little 
surprised at the question. 

“ Excuse me,” said Russell, “ but it is the 
same one which was assigned to me three 
weeks ago, and I must endeavor to investi- 
gate the matter.” 

The lady looked perplexed. “ If you will 
wait a few moments,” she said, finally, “ until 
Mr. Van Ranse returns, I am sure he will be 
happy to do what he can to assist you.” 

Russell waited, but finding the gentleman 
in question did not return, he determined 
once more to try his fortune. He first com- 
pared again the number upon his key with 
that upon the door of the pre-occupied state- 
room, and finding they accorded only too well, 
he was about to seek the proper authorities 


100 


ASPHODEL. 


for redress, if possible, when Mrs. Yan Ranse 
again appeared. 

“ I would not keep the apartment,” she 
said, “ since your application was made much 
earlier than ours, except for my daughter 
Amy, who is rather delicate, and not a good 
sailor under the most favorable circumstances. 
I fear there is culpable carelessness on the 
part of the officials, which has been too com- 
monly the case upon this line. We only ap- 
plied for a passage five days ago, intending 
to have taken the next steamer, had not our 
affairs demanded the presence of Mr. Yan 
Ranse as soon as possible ; and we were some- 
what surprised at our good success, which I 
discover, too late, is at the expense of your 
comfort.” 

Russell bowed his acknowledgments for her 

politeness, and said he would make one more 

4 

effort to have the matter cleared up. He 
would not disturb the ladies, however, on any 


SOLITUDE. 


101 


account, as lie could learn to be quite com- 
fortable anywhere. Yet lie felt, as he turned 
away, that the last alleviation of this intoler- 
able voyage was gone when he had lost the 
possibility of retirement, which his comfort- 
able state-room would have secured to him. 

The inconvenience to which Mr. Yan Ranse 
had thus unwittingly subjected a gentleman, 
and especially Russell, for whom it appeared 
he held an enthusiastic admiration, being a 
devoted reader of his books, caused him to 
make every possible reparation in his power. ' 
The daily attentions extended to him by the 
family proved the high esteem in which he 
was held. No kindness Was omitted which 
might in any way lessen the discomfort of 
the journey. 

Fortunately the weather, although cold, was 
often clear and invigorating. It was in the 
afternoon of one of those favorable days shortly 
after their departure that Russell found him- 


102 


ASPHODEL. 


self seated upon the deck, somewhat apart, 
holding a hook as a kind of fence against 
intruders, which he had suffered nevertheless 
to drop from his hand, while his whole senses 
became absorbed in watching the monotonous 
rise and fall of the wide sea-plain. He was 
suddenly aroused from his aimless dream by 
the approach of pattering footsteps from be- 
hind. He turned quickly. It was Amy Yan 
Ranse. 

“ Don’t you need a walk ? ” she said, with 
a mixture of shyness and coquetry. “ I am 
sure it would be good for your health, and I 
have tired papa out.” 

Russell obeyed her command gracefully; 
indeed, it would have required a person of 
far less natural politeness than himself ever to 
say “No” to the appeals of this pretty child- 
woman. Beside, it was refreshing to walk 
with any one who possessed such elasticity. 
Her trim little figure, enclosed in a thick 


SOU TUBE. 


103 


sack-coat of comfortable Quaker hue, with a 
dress of slightly deeper tint, just caught up 
sufficiently to reveal the hem pf her bright 
petticoat, and nice feet in their strong, trim- 
laced walking-boots, seemed, under the new 
excitement of sea-life, to possess inexhaustible 
vigor. There was something about her, Rus- 
sell thought, which resembled Erminia. She 
was as unlike as it was possible to conceive, 
and at first he could not discover where the 
charm lay. But that afternoon, as the sun fell 
upon her hair, where the small brown hat al- 
lowed it to be seen, he found it possessed the 
same golden hue as that other hair, to re- 
member which was more to him now than any- 
thing the present could bestow, and which he 
loved to have suggested to his memory in this 
way, although Amy’s locks were far less plente- 
ous and beautiful than Erminia’ s. They were 
more like herself, a little crisp and unruly, 
yet very pretty too in their way. And the eyes, 


104 


ASPHODEL. 


— was there not something in them, too, like 
Erminia’s ? To be sure they were not brown, 
like hers ! T^iey were- sometimes light gray ; 
but just now, as he was thinking of them, 
they had caught, as he fancied, the blue sea 
color, deep and full. Yes, that was it ; they 
seemed to fill with light to their very depths * 
as Erminia’s did when she was earnest. And 
Amy, for a wonder, was talking earnestly then. 
He had discovered she could do that at times, 
when he led her on ; hut he must do it care- 
fully. She would take fright at the faintest 
tinge of satire, and would start into such a 
broad career of nonsense as to preclude all 
possibility of further advance. That afternoon 
nothing came to disturb her mood, — she was 
talking of the home they had left behind. 

“ It was hard work to make up our minds 
to come. In the first place, you see, we had 
to leave our friends, and then,” with an arch 
look, “ some people who cared very much 


SOLITUDE. 


105 


about us, whom it was n’t so easy to get 
away from”; — and Amy blushed a trifle at 
this, intimating, as it were, Those were my 
lovers, you know ; and perhaps you may as 
well know it, too ; it does n’t hurt me at all, 
and there ’s no reason why the whole story 
should n’t come out, especially to you, who 
would never speak, or perhaps never think 
of it again ! t 

u Then there was my piano, which stood 
in a lovely room for music, — an apartment 
papa had arranged on purpose. Of course 
we ’ve brought the piano with us, but — we 
could n’t bring the room exactly ! And then 
the conservatory, and ” — beginning to look 
very serious, — “ I won’t think of it a mo- 
ment longer, or I shall be miserable!” 

“ I wish you would,” said Russell ; “ not 
that I like you to be miserable, but it is 
pleasant to hear of such a delightful home.” 

“ Ah, yes ! but I did not think you were 


5 * 


106 


ASPHODEL. 


cruel. Do you forget Dante’s Hell has few 
worse pangs 

‘Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria ' ? ” 

Russell was fairly surprised, both by the 
depth of feeling Amy revealed to him in spite 
of herself as she said these words, and the 
perfect knowledge of Italian her pronuncia- 
tion evinced. What a weird little sprite she 
was, to be sure ! 

“ Do you know,” said Russell, in a tone 
which hung on the narrow, inexplicable verge 
between truth and joking, “ that my doctrine 
is, we sound the deeps of Hell in this world ! 
Perhaps,” he added, presently, as if half mus- 
ing, and with an uncontrollable touch of sad- 
ness, “ perhaps we scale the heights of Heaven 
also.” 

“ But,” said Amy, “ I am sure it is n’t 
Heaven at all if you don’t know it. There 
was I skimming off the thickest cream of life, 


SOLITUDE . 


107 


and lapping it up with about as much grati- 
tude as a kitten, and never discovering where 
I had been till I found myself, ‘Nella mise- 
ria.’ ” 

She said this with such a half-mournful, 
half-comic expression, that Russell could not 
help laughing. 

“ Poor kitten ! how miserable you do look 
this glorious afternoon ! With nothing on the 
planet to enjoy but capital health, a grand 
sea view, inspiring air, and a companion, — 
h — m ! ” 

“ Who seems to have no pity for the suf- 
ferings of others ! ” 

“ People who lose their temper at once be- 
come unjust,” Russell answered. It delighted 
him to watch the pretty, tempestuous little 
face while he teased her. “ I only wished to 
discover the depth of your sorrow, that I 
might learn how to sympathize with it truly, 
you must remember.” 


108 


ASPHODEL. 


“ 0 — oh ! ” said Amy ; and then, as if 
the most opportune interruption possible had 
come to a talk she was determined not to 
prolong, she looked seaward a moment in- 
tently, and exclaimed, “ Dolphins ! don’t you 
see dolphins ? ” 

“ Dolphins,” said Russell, derisively ; “ they 
are nothing but porpoises.” 

“ No matter, I want to see them,” she an- 
swered ; “ please give me your hand,” and 
in a moment she had sprung upon the deck 
railing, and from thence into the life-boat, 
which was fastened high up where she could 
get a better view. There she sat quiet, and 
apparently content for a moment, and then 
turned round and smiled at her companion, 
as if she -frould say, “We are still very good 
friends, but I won’t be teased.” 

He was piqued. The touch of true feeling 
she had revealed made him ready to know 
more of this strange little creature, but she 


SOLITUDE . 


109 


was as difficult to seize as the will-o’-the- 
wisp. 

“ Amy,” said Mr. Van Ranse, who appeared 
on deck at this juncture, “ Amy, what are 
you doing up there?” 

“ Only watching porpoises, papa; your friend 
down there helped me up.” 

The last words made it impossible for her 
father to administer the reprimand he had in 
his. heart. As for Russell, he was vexed really 
at last. He would almost as soon have helped 
her to leap overboard, if he could have known 
what she was about to do. 

There she sat, however, undisturbed, and 
watched the sunset, while her father and 
Russell paced the deck and talked together. 
But she also watched her chance 1 adroitly, 
and once, when they were at the farther end 
of their beat, slipped down from her eyrie 
and ran away to find her mother. 

“ Amy,” said Mr. Yan Ranse, as it became 


110 


ASPHODEL . 


dark. “ Amy,” he called, finding she did not 
respond, “ I wish yon would come down now.” 
But hearing neither movement nor answer, 
he clambered up into the boat, and, not find- 
ing his daughter there, he became seriously 
alarmed. 

“ She is not here ! ” he cried hoarsely to 
Russell, who answered quickly, — 

“ If you will continue your search about the 
deck, I will step below. She may have gone 
down when we were not observing her.” 

He flew to the cabin. There sat Mrs. Van 
Ranse, reading, with Amy coiled up fast asleep 
on the seat beside her. Before he could say, 
“ Thank God, she is safe ! ” Mr. Yan Ranse 
had followed him, and Amy was opening her 
eyes, ready to laugh over the excitement she 
had occasioned. When she saw the trouble 
in her father’s face, however, she turned to 
him, put her arms about his neck, and kissed 
him with deep and penitent affection such as 


SOLITUDE. 


Ill 


words are powerless to express; and Russell 
felt the involuntary tears rise to his eyes at 
the sight. He quietly withdrew from the 
cabin, feeling he was no longer necessary, 
and left them alone together, while he re- 
turned to the deserted deck to watch with 
the stars. 

He recalled the last vigil he had kept. It 
was after Erminia’s singing : when he was 
stung by a hope too nearly like despair, yet 
laden with a sacred fruit. It told him he 
could love again ; and when he slept at last, 
with the peace of that thought in his heart, 
Erminia came and seemed to beckon him 
into her sweet presence. Then indeed he 
awoke as now, to find himself alone, fearing 
to advance; but to-day the pain, the long- 
ing found no relief, until, as the morning of 
consolation ever awakes from the night of sor- 
row, a light came, when the new dawn arose. 

He determined to send to Erminia from the 


112 


ASPHODEL. 


first port a ring he wore, as a silent expression 
of what he knew not how to say. She seemed 
so proud, so impenetrably hedged around by 
barriers she chose to raise, that he could not 
discover her feeling towards him. Poor Er- 
minia ! The pathos of her words he did not 
indeed comprehend. And when she sang, — 

The fountain of my love shall feel no bars, 

But ever flowing ever be at rest; 

For what am I that I should clasp the stars, 

Or think their rays are only for my breast! 

who shall say that she comprehended herself, 
or the need, the hunger of her life ! 

At length the days and the nights were 
numbered, and the stately ship rocked on the 
Western sea. Then the weary voyagers were 
bathed in winds of summer, and the ocean 
became as glass, and the sunset became as 
rubies, and the mountains shone like pearl. 
They entered at last, by the Golden Gate, and 
Russell’s ring had gone to Erminia. 


SOLITUDE. 


113 


Amy professed no talent for solitude. She 
did not like to be alone. Hers was a sweet, 
clinging presence, always ready with a laugh 
or a tear for her neighbor, and being apart 
by herself was her first idea of unhappiness. 
Therefore she considered it her responsibility 
“ to take care ” of her numerous fellow-pas- 
sengers, and of her “papa and mamma and 
their friend ” in particular; “ the care,” as she 
phrased it, consisting in the exercise of her 
simple childlike arts of beguilement. It was 
impossible to be annoyed by her, or ever to 
consider her arrival an interruption. Russell 
began to depend upon her gay presence before 
the voyage was ended. When his head ached 
she would induce him to lie upon the deck, 
saying she would - bring him all he needed, 
which often proved to be innumerable dain- 
ties he did not need. When it stormed she 
insisted upon “ a jolly time,” as she said, 
in the cabin. In short, except that one 


114 


ASPHODEL. 


night of watching, Russell experienced little 
of the isolation to which he had left others. 
Now, however, the day of arrival was at hand. 
Mr. Yan Ranse urged, nay, almost insisted, 
that Russell should come to live with them. 

“ The doors of our house are standing open 
to welcome you,” he said. “ Our excellent 
housekeeper has preceded our arrival by sev- 
eral months, and we shall be only too happy 
to take you there. We are two or three miles 
from town, certainly, but the road is a com- 
fortable one, I hear, and the villa sufficiently 
attractive. We shall have a pleasant lawn 
and flower-garden, too ; will not these tempt 
you?” 

It was with difficulty that Russell refused 
this kind offer. He saw the necessity of im- 
mediate action with regard to his affairs, 
and wished to be as near the busy centre 
of men as possible. His whole thought was 
fixed upon the hour for return, — to do his 


SOLITUDE. 


115 


work and go back to his home. He was bent 
upon this end, for, with undivided attention, 
who could tell how speedily his labor might 
be accomplished. Therefore, with the promise 
of frequent visits at the villa, he separated 
from his devoted friends on the crowded pier 
of the great city of the Pacific. 


IX. 


PRESENCE. 

T T OW soon can Nature, by her loving skies 
and caressing breezes, by the uniform 
circling of day and night, each unfolding a' 
fresh surprise of beauty, charm her lovers in- 
to reconcilement with much, even with exile ! 
But she cannot shut “ that inward eye, which 
is the bliss of solitude,” and also is its tor- 
ment. Bussell sought Nature, and courted 
her for every new manifestation because it 
was new, and for all that was familiar be- 
cause the past would rise before him then 
as if enshrined in it. But as the time ap- 
proached when he calculated Erminia should 
receive his- ring, nothing he had seen before 
could satisfy his restlessness. He desired to 
travel, — to climb the mountains and lay his 



PRESENCE. 


117 


hands upon tlieir changeful loveliness. He 
forgot the glory of the unattained, and that 
the glowing heights, built up of opal, jasper, 
and chalcedony, making the distance beauti- 
ful, are transmuted by the climber’s step into 
rough rocks and frowning crags. He must 
go thence. The beauty of endeavor smiled 
for him. 

It had become the habit of Russell’s life, 
since they were fairly established in their new 
home, to pay a daily visit to his friends. When 
the labors of the day were over, he would join 
them and watch the sun fade away from the 
green valley, and linger on the shining moun- 
tain peaks, and die in purple shadow. He 
told them of his projected wanderings, one 
lovely afternoon, as they sat thus together on 
the terrace, — the early approach of spring in 
that kind climate already inviting- travellers, 
and serving as sufficient excuse for journeying. 
To his surprise he found his host and hostess 


118 


ASPHODEL. 


almost as eager for change as himself, nor was 
Amy a whit behind them in her desire. 

Even Russell’s clear insight had not alto- 
gether penetrated the lives of his companions. 
Mrs. Yan Ranse was a woman of exquisite 
tact and elegance, and, although possessing no 
particular “ accomplishment,” was quite as 
agreeable and useful a person in the world as 
if she had passed several hours every day over 
the Italian Grammar or Spanish Dictionary. 
Nevertheless, she was determined that Amy, 
whose life was not overcrowded with active 
duties like her own, should develop whatever 
talent she might possess, especially for music. 
Amy had not musical genius, hut the vigor 
and impetuosity of her nature, and the de- 
voted study of the best masters caused her 
to become an excellent musician, and to 
give her mother satisfaction. Her pure taste 
helped her to a perception of the finest in 
every form of art, and enabled her to under- 


PRESENCE. 


119 


stand the music into which at times she flung 
the unexpressed and undeveloped fire of her 
life. A wayward child, Amy was neither to 
be counted on nor controlled. Her love of 
luxury savored of Orientalism ; ' she needed 
purple cushions and soft carpets and flowers, 
— and she had them all. When the winds 
were chilly she liked a couch and a novel, and 
the house warm as midsummer. Of society, 
she was extremely fond, — not more so per- 
haps than society was of her, for this love may 
usually be considered reciprocal, like any 
worthier affection ; (if I have not committed 
a sacrilege by applying the sacred name at 
all to anything so devoid of purpose or re- 
sult !) Her gayety, wit, and, above all, her - 
sweet affectionateness, fed every one with 
whom she came in contact with blitheness 
like that of the fresh, common air. Yet in 
the large society from which she had just 
stepped no one can reign as queen. Petty 


120 


ASPHODEL. 


jealousies, or fanciful exclusiveness, break up 
and mar tlie surface of private life by waves as 
healthful as those which stir the wide surface 
of political life, or the waters of the broad, salt 
sea. The stagnant placidity of aristocracy is 
now outworn, and there is no peace at heart 
save for those who wear the stars of Content, 
and the stripes of Humility. The more Amy 
expended herself for others, and the more 
hearts she conquered, so much the more would 
all turn shortly to dust and ashes in her grasp. 
Her neighbors would give a more successful 
party than herself, or she would ' find some 
house richer s in paintings, if not in books, than 
their own. She thought she did not care for 
these things, yet the time lavished upon her 
fifty intimate friends proved that the demon 
of popularity possessed her, and left her no 
rest. It was not a cause for wonder that Amy 
grew thin. 

“ Going out again to-night ? ” Mr. Yan 


PRESENCE. 


121 


Ranse would say sometimes, when Saturday 
night came round, and for the sixth night in 
the week Amy appeared at dinner in her taste- 
ful evening toilette. 

“ 0 yes, papa, it is not a party, you know. 
I am only going to meet a few friends at 
Ellen’s; — she said I must come.” And Mr. 
Van Ranse, who was entirely persuaded that 
the party would not “ go off” well without, 
allowed her, for Ellen’s sake, to go again. In 
this way the two winters were passed, after 
Amy had left school, before their departure 
from home. What change could be greater 
than to that of their present retirement! 

Therefore we can readily understand why 
Russell’s proposal for an upland expedition 
should have met with such immediate favor. 
He matured the plan as he walked towards 
“The Rosery” one afternoon, for so Amy 
had christened their new home, and it was 
, accepted at once, with but slight modifica- 


122 


ASPHODEL. 


tions. The dreary season of continued rain 
was past, and the smile of spring shone in the 
sunshine. It was the smile of hope to Rus- 
sell, and he could not linger quietly where he 
was, and wait. The conscious passing of the 
hours crushed him. But a load was lifted 
when, as they sat upon the terrace overlook- 
ing the pleasant rose-garden, watching the 
white peaks growing warm in the western 
glow, he found sympathy in his restlessness. 
Amy was ready to start immediately ; and Mr. 
and Mrs. Yan Ranse, sufficiently pleased with 
the satisfaction of their child, consented to 
leave' home the following week. 

Russell feared everything for his compan- 
ions upon this adventurous expedition; but, 
after all their kindness to him, he could not 
start without proposing to Mr. Yan Ranse to 
accompany him, little thinking, when he made 
the suggestion, that the ladies would consider 
themselves included in the plan. But he was 


PRESENCE. 


123 


reassured, after the first day’s journey, of tlieir 
ability to make the trip. The climate and 
the healthful new life had already done much 
for Amy. Every day seemed to see her more 
round and glowing than the last, and when, 
near the end of their mountain climbing, he 
watched her one day, as, preceding them all, 
she was the first to reach the summit whither 
they were bound, he was rejoiced, for the sake 
of the others, at least, that the journey had 
been made. Even Mrs. Yan Ranse, who had 
acknowledged a slight dread of novel expe- 
riences, proved herself an excellent horse- 
woman, and, as their plan was to rest during 
midday, riding only at morning and towards 
sunset, there was not much fear of over-fa- 
tigue. 

Russell frequently chose to select early the 
spot for their noontide shelter, starting in the 
morning an hour before the party was in mo- 
tion, and riding rapidly over the green inter- 


124 


ASPHODEL. 


vales, his horse’s fetlocks steeped in dew, while 
he watched the grandeurs of awakening day 
upon the heights around. These holy hours 
when man awakes to greet the infant morn- 
ing, and, after prayer, arises with the sins of 
yesterday past, and the unspotted page of the 
future outstretched in its purity before him, 
— in these hours Russell knew that manna 
fell, and he went forth to gather it. The wil- 
derness through which he passed was beauti- 
ful as Paradise. The rapid mountain streams 
dashed across his path, sometimes glowing 
like amber, as if sunlight were perpetually 
imprisoned in the crystal flood, sometimes 
clear and white as silver; and as the horse- 
man rode, he found one invisible sweet com- 
panion to accompany his steps, one presence 
forever in harmony with the scene, one who 
drew him up to the serener heights of her com- 
panionship, and for whom his fairest thought 
could never grow too fair. “ You are my 


PRESENCE. 


A 


125 


Asphodel,” he exclaimed, to that sweet vision, 
“ and as I have seen you blooming once, so 
shall you bloom forever in memory’s immor- 
tal habitations ! ” 

Long before noon Russell paused and rode 
more slowly, searching on either hand for a 
halting place. He wished to select the no- 
blest oaks, the clearest stream, the finest 
mountain aspect to enchant his friends, and 
frequently devoted hours to the choice. Some- 
times before he had altogether made a de- 
cision he would hear Amy’s laugh rippling 
through the forest, and see the quails rise 
with their wild cry, startled by the approach- 
ing cavalcade. Then he would hastily estab- 
lish himself in order to bid them welcome. 

He was always sure of a kindly greeting 
from the approaching party. While their peo- 
ple were preparing the noonday meal, Amy 
would have some merry incident to relate 
which had happened since the previous even- 


6 * 


I 


126 


ASPHODEL. 


ing, or a jest aimed at her father for his 
dauntless attack upon some phantom bear, 
although bears were by no means always 
phantoms in this region, and were the con- 
tinued terror of her mother, who did not 
relish her daughter’s jokes upon the subject. 
Russell felt as if his brothers and sisters were 
about him, such was the kind household af- 
fection manifested by his friends during the 
journey. They were not wholly ignorant of 
his lonely condition, and evidently felt a satis- 
faction, he could not but discover, in doing 
something to alleviate his exile. Nothing oc- 
curred to mar their enjoyment of the magnifi- 
cent scenery which surrounded them. Their 
friendship, a possession which may be either 
made enduring or utterly destroyed under the 
test of travel, grew steadily day by day. 

There was but one incident during the 
whole trip which gave him the slightest un- 
easiness. It occurred towards sunset on the 


PRESENCE. 


127 


eighth day of their absence. The noontide 
had been passed on the snowy mountain-top, 
and they were now rapidly descending into 
the valley for the night. Suddenly, as they 
turned a sharp angle in their descent, leaving 
the precipice on the right hand, Russell’s 
horse, usually sure-footed, stumbled, slipped, 
and a less skilful horseman than himself 
would have been cast headlong into the abyss. 
For one moment he believed himself lost ; the 
next instant he had regained his seat and the 
animal had recovered his footing. Fortunately, 
the ladies had preceded him, but a cry from 
the guide in the rear soon brought the party 
to a halt. His voluble tongue began immedi- 
ately to relate the story to the others, while 
Russell quietly dismounted in order to tighten 
his saddle-girth. When he had finished the 
work he turned to speak to Amy, and to his 
surprise found her speechless, and white as the 
handkerchief she held in her hand. “ If she 


128 


ASPHODEL . 


had seen the danger,” he reflected, “ she might 
well have been alarmed ; but ” — and Rus- 
sell shuddered at the thought — “ could it 
be possible, he questioned, that Amy should 
learn to love one so cold and hopeless as him- 
self ? ” 

A - week afterward they were again estab- 
lished in the happy retirement of the “ Ros- 
ery.” Russell perceived at length, what his 
business friends had long ago perceived for 
him, that the labors for which he came were 
not to be speedily ended, and he endeavored 
no longer to demand querulously whether 
every week were the last, but tried to wait 
more patiently. If he had not altogether for- 
gotten the shock of that afternoon upon the 
mountain, he found the method of life, ar- 
ranged for him by his friends, too agreeable 
to be disturbed by a light fancy. The pretty, 
flattering ways of Amy were pleasant to him, 
and he could not find the courage to get on 


PRESENCE. 


129 


without them. The exquisiteness of the whole 
establishment was congenial to his fine taste, 
and he saw this also was due in a large 
measure to Amy. Her faultless toilette, in 
delicate harmony with the blossoms she would 
select to wear, her sprightly, friendly ways, the 
social table on the terrace, overlooking the 
rose-garden, and in the distance the faint blue 
of the Pacific Sea, — all these attracted, and 
threw unseen fetters over him. He fancied 
this idyllic home to be a warm pillow of affec 
tion whereon to rest and calm his lonely heart, 
and he forgot life is but clay and man a sculp- 
tor. He had eaten of the lotus and was sleep- 
ing in the garden of a dream. 

“You must not fail to come to-morrow, 
you know,” said Mrs. Van Ranse one evening 
to Russell as he was about to take his leave. 
« We are to open the Rosery, you remember, 
for a fete. I think no season can be more 
beautiful here than the present.” And the 


6 * 


I 


130 


ASPHODEL. 


lady glanced with satisfaction, as she spoke, 
upon the blooming beds of flowers at her 
feet, and at the lovely panorama beyond. 
Then she turned to Amy, who stood beside 
her. 

The child looked like the queen of the 
roses this afternoon, — a blush-rose, — as she 
stood in her dress of tender shifting color 
like the sea in mist. “ Yes,” said her mother, 
dreamily, “ we could hardly have chosen bet- 
ter.” 

“ You ’ll be sure to come,” said queen-rose, 
looking up, “ for after we have seen enough 
of people, I must take you to look at the fire- 
flies in the thicket, which I never can do lately, 
because papa always wants you. And you 
have promised to go some time. They are 
almost large enough and quite brilliant enough 
to talk to.” 

The next evening found Russell driving 
quietly out towards the valley. It was two 


PRESENCE. 


131 


hours later than usual with him, because lie 
wished to come upon the scene after the day 
had faded, that he might enjoy tlie effect of 
the illumination. But the long lustre of mid- 
summer still shone as he passed over the well- 
known road where every live-oak > sycamore, 
and willow seemed to have a familiar nod or 
greeting for him. The pleasing sensation of 
going to a home filled his mind with calm. 
The mountain air, descending from the icy 
peaks still tipped with opal fire, stimulated 
him ; and when, coming in before the other 
guests, he greeted Mr. and Mrs. Yan Ranse 
affectionately, his unwonted happiness com- 
municated itself with electric effect, and the 
keen joy of their sympathy and union flashed 
and bound them to each other by closer and 
tenderer relations than before. Amy had not 
yet appeared, and when she came was hardly 
like herself. She was paler than Russell had 
seen her of late, and her hair, usually dis- 


132 


ASPHODEL. 


posed to escape into any pretty waywardness 
in which she chose to allow it, was confined 
simply to-night in a shining net. Her dress, 
too, though of lace, was of plain fawn-color, 
fastened close at the throat, and unrelieved 
except by flecks of gold and a chain clasp- 
ing an antique gem around her neck. She 
did not come at once to meet Russell, as was 
her custom, although she must have recog- 
nized his voice in the drawing-room, but, as if 
the air of the house were oppressive, she drew 
about her the little cloak he liked to see her 
wear, with its warm, white fur, and passed 
rapidly down the garden. Soon he could dis- 
tinguish her through the avenue of noble oaks 
superintending the arrangements of the lights, 
removing them sometimes where they hung too 
thickly together, and placing others where 
the foliage threw too dense a shade. From 
the drawing-room they could see the shifting 
lanterns, and catch a glimpse of her sometimes 


PRESENCE. 


133 


when the sparkling threads of gold upon her 
dress flashed in the light. 

Presently she , came towards them, through 
the garden walk, moving thoughtfully. She 
was Amy the woman now. She lingered 
among the roses, her sisters, as if their society 
was sweeter than that of others. To be sure, 
said Russell to himself, she has not the an- 
ticipation of meeting friends to-night ; nearly 
all the invited guests must be mere acquaint- 
ances, and few of them can ever be anything 
else to her. Yet the pleasure of giving pleas- 
ure was usually quite enough for her. Even 
when the company began to arrive, although 
her part was performed with a grace and ease 
only rivalled by her mother’s elegance, Rus- 
sell could not but perceive her heart was 
elsewhere. He stood not far from her side, 
and once or twice essayed to rally her on her 
sobriety. But the duties of receiving for a 
while divided them. “ Presently,” he said to 


134 


ASPHODEL . 


himself, “ the dancing will begin, and this 
will perhaps give me an opportunity.” 

Just as the music sounded, however, a new- 
comer, with whom he remembered having had 
some business in the city, approached the la- 
dies. The stranger had scarcely made his sal- 
utations when it was necessary to make room 
for the dancing, and turning aside he sudden- 
ly perceived Russell close at hand. 

“ My dear sir,” he exclaimed in a loud 
voice, “ let me congratulate you sincerely up- 
on your engagement. I am happy and proud 
to learn you have decided to settle upon this 
shore. 4 Westward the star of empire takes 
its way,’ sir.” 

“ What do you say ! ” gasped Russell, whose 
strength and presence of mind seemed to for- 
sake him utterly as the meaning of the man’s 
speech, delivered in a stentorian voice, came 
to him. His first thought was, How shall I 
stop this man ? his second was of Amy. Could 


PRESENCE. 


135 


she have overheard that speech, or did the 
music drown it ? Alas ! her manner to-night 
was no longer a mystery to him. The cruel re- 
port had already reached her. Whether this 
particular voice had shocked her ear he could 
not discover. She was talking now with the 
gentleman at her side who asked her to dance, 
and they were about to begin a quadrille. 

He broke suddenly away from his torment- 
or, and went out into the air. He must be 
alone until this dreadful dance was ended, 
and he could speak to her. The sharp sting 
of remorse overwhelmed him. Had he then 
in carelessness, and love of ease, and gratified 
vanity, suffered himself to wreck the happi- 
ness of this family ? Did Amy love him ? 
he asked himself, — and his mind reverted 
quickly, as in the hour of danger all the past 
will flash across our vision, to the countless 
proofs of her devotion, the meaning of which 
had until now passed unregarded. He had 


136 


ASPHODEL. 


fancied them to be the expression of the irre- 
pressible affectionateness of her nature, which 
was ever ready to lavish itself upon the near- 
est object. Now he saw it all, and the re- 
membrance became torture. Here was hu- 
miliation indeed ! Must he then relinquish the 
aspiration of his nobler nature, having proved 
himself unworthy ? Must he • forego a love 
that was endeavor, but whose crown was 
woven of immortal asphodel, the perfect lily 
of love, fadeless and perfected ? 

Questions and prayers hurried in wild con- 
fusion through his spirit. His mind was like 
the face of the summer’s sky when the storm- 
wind rushes over it. He walked backward 
and forward scarcely knowing what he did, 
yet striving to find light. Then he threw him- 
self upon a seat, buried his face in his hands, 
and, benumbed with grief, became unconscious 
of speech or silence. How long he sat he 
could not tell, but the discordant clangor from 


PRESENCE. 


137 


the house, for such the music seemed to his 
ear, untuned by misery, had not ceased, when 
a light hand touched his shoulder. He started, 
— it was Amy. 

“ I wish to speak with you,” she said, half 
abruptly, her childish coquetry vanishing that 
moment, as it were, and becoming transformed 
into a frank and serious womanliness ; “I 
heard you congratulated to-night upon our 
engagement, an incident which happened to 
me also this morning, coupled with the an- 
nouncement that this innocent rose-fete was 
to celebrate our betrothal ! 

“ I am sorry,” she added, with a gentle 
dignity, under which her emotion was not 
altogether hidden, “I am sorry to say, I 
think we should part to-night. Afterward 
you shall find opportunity to explain all to 
my father. I cannot mention the subject to 
my parents. It grieves me that I must de- 
prive them of — so dear a friend. For my- 


138 


ASPHODEL. 


self — ” She could get no farther, her voice 
failed, and the poor girl burst into a paroxysm 
of tears. 

What could Russell do ? He rose, and, gen- 
tly putting his arms about her, placed her by 
his side upon the garden seat. 

“Dear Amy,” he said tenderly, as if he 
were soothing a child, “ why do you weep ? 
Do not be so shocked at what people say.” 
Then in pure pity he stopped speaking, for her 
agony seemed more than she could bear or he 
endure to see, and with every word he said 
her trouble increased rather than diminished. 
After a pause he added, “ I shall not go 
away, Amy. I do not mind such foolish re- 
ports.” 

“ Yes ! ” said she, starting up from the 
seat and interrupting him violently, “ you 
must go, you shall not stay, I cannot bear 
it,” — and the poor unhappy girl flung her- 
self down again, now upon the ground before 


PRESENCE. 


139 


him, as if she would beseech him to leave 
her. 

“ Amy,” said Russell once more, his voice 
full of tenderness, ^ my darling,” and he 
lifted her, as he spoke, like a child from the 
cold grass and placed her upon the seat. 
“It is true this is not our -betrothal fete, but 
we have hardly known each other yet as we 
might. I have never told you the story of my 
life, of my daughter, and the home that I have 
known ; and you are too young, perhaps, to 
learn to love one who has suffered as I 
have done, and whose blue sky is now always 
shaded.” 

She lifted her head as he said these words, 
like a flower that has been beaten by the 
rain, and turned her tearful eyes upon his 
face. 

“ I sometimes think,” she said, between 
her sobs, “ that no one can suffer more 
than I ! ” 


140 


ASPHODEL. 


He did not smile as she spoke, her distress 
was too real. He simply said, “ Dear Amy, 
do not be so unhappy, but answer me, may 
I come to see you, that we may know each 
other better ? May I, Amy ?” he said beseech- 
ingly, when she did not reply, — “ may I ? ” 
And he kissed her. 

In a moment she had slipped from her seat, 
and, kneeling, flung her arms about him, and 
had drawn him down in one passionate em- 
brace, drowning all sense in that deep ecstasy. 
There she lay, and neither moved nor spoke 
till Bussell said gently, “ Amy, I must take 
you to the house now, the air grows very 
cold. Let me wrap your cloak around you.” 
Half supporting her tiny figure, he fastened 
the warm fur securely about her throat, and 
led her from the spot. She turned unresist- 
ingly to go with him. When they came to 
the rose-garden, Russell stooped and gathered 
a cluster of half-blown buds and put them 


PRESENCE. 


141 


in her hand. Then they entered the house 
together. 

There was a pause in the dancing as they 
reached the broad window of the drawing- 
room, and it was evident that Amy had been 
missed. When she made her reappearance 
Russell could not help observing the rapid 
glances exchanged by the merry groups of 
talkers. He now carried her cloak upon his 
arm, and she had placed his flowers in her 
dress. But she no longer observed or lis- 
tened to what others were saying, for Russell 
was about to take his leave, lingering how- 
ever a moment in order to ask her if he 
might return to-morrow, later than his cus- 
tom, in order to ride with her alone. She 
hardly spoke when she answered, but turned 
her eyes upon him, full of a lustre he had not 
seen before, and smiled assent. He thought 
her beautiful then. The womanly tenderness 
awaking in her added a softness to every 


142 


ASPHODEL. 


line. The calmness of repressed joy caused 
her face to glow with subdued radiance, and 
the sculpturesque beauty of her appearance 
was at that moment enhanced by the float- 
ing back of her lace sleeve, which left her 
rounded arm unveiled to the very shoulder. 
As Russell went out at last, after a word of 
farewell, he heard on every side the universal 
praises of her loveliness. “ Yes, she is lovely,” 
he said to himself, “ they all see it,” and with 
a word of good night to his friends he drove 
rapidly away into the darkness. 

He wrapped himself in his cloak, and sought 
obliviousness as the carriage whirled on, but 
every glancing thought became distinct as 
stars upon the black sky. When he reached 
his lodging he found the fire smouldering in 
the grate and the house silent. He heaped the 
wood till it blazed, then drew the couch be- 
fore it, and flung himself down hoping for 
sleep. Instead of sleeping, he soon became 


PRESENCE. 


143 


wakeful as at midday, and arose again and 
walked the room, until at last, utterly ex- 
hausted, he lay down again and suddenly lost 
all consciousness. He could not tell how long 
he slept, but when he awoke there was only a 
thread of light in the broad east, and he was 
unrefreshed as if the struggle of the previous 
night had continued till the dawn. The mm- 
ble of market wagons had broken his half- 
finished dream, and before he was aware he 
slept again, this time soundly and forgettingly. 
It was broad day when he at length became 
conscious. His servant had entered and shut 
out the brilliant sunshine, and placed letters 
on the table by his side. Among them were 
letters from home ! He seized the pile eagerly, 
but they slipped from his tremulous hand, 
and he lacked strength and desire to look 
them over. In a moment, however, he recov- 
ered himself, and, turning them in his fingers 
as by some fine instinct, seized immediately 


144 


ASPHODEL. 


upon the one he wished and dreaded. The 
long-expected letter from Erminia ! Again he 
hesitated, but why should he now fear what 
he had so long hoped for ? He tore the en- 
velope ; there was a second enclosure. Still 
more impatiently he pulled this carelessly 
apart, and, as the paper yielded, his ring rolled 
with a sharp sound across the floor. On the 
inside was written simply, “ The steamer sails 
immediately ; your letter has been unaccount- 
ably delayed until now. I can only say I must 
not keep your ring ; I will write by the next 
mail ; dear Fanny is well.’’ 

Russell neither moved nor spoke. A day 
or two before he would have felt that the only 
desire of his life was dashed to the earth. 
Now the letter gave him a bitter sense of 
relief. If he could not hope to win Erminia, 
who had been his aspiration, if she was too 
high, too pure for one so weak as he, should 
he not at least endeavor to make another 


PRESENCE. 


145 


happy ? One who had daringly adventured 
all a woman can venture upon the stake of 
his affection ! Who had merged every consid- 
eration of the world in the tide of her love 
for him ! Who had forgotten her separate 
existence by his side ! And above all, one 
whom he had allowed himself to approach as 
an elder brother, until he was awakened to 
find her passionate nature exhausting itself 
upon him with all the fiery fervor of first 
love. Dear, clinging Amy ! should he not ask 
her to be his wife ? She is gay and witty, 
he said to himself, and the world loves her, 
what wonder is it then that she loves the 
world ; but all that will not matter since she 
loves me better. She shall be mine, mine 
forever. It is my first duty and shall be my 
true desire. In the next instant the memory 
of the home he had left came back to him, 
— the picture of those quiet days when in the 
stillness God’s sunshine fell upon his spirit, 


7 


146 


ASPHODEL. 


and Ermima s voice dropped in pure harmony 
through his world of thought. Under the 
shelter of that love he had seen all truth 
more clearly ; the factitious crust of life was 
torn away, and he had been quickened to 
write and live “ at his best and fullest.” He 
shuddered now, — he must shut that vision 
out. 

The day opening thus upon shadows became 
endlessly long to Russell, yet he could not for- 
get many days had been the same of late. 
He had become restless. Sometimes he fan- 
cied it was because the rush of business life 
perplexed and disturbed him. He could not 
write now, nor had he found it possible to do 
so since the voyage. Sometimes he fancied 
the sea had disturbed his head, but he smiled 
at himself for that idea, when he remembered 
how few quiet hours had been reserved for 
the calm of thought or the melodies that lie 
behind it. He had given himself too much 


PRESENCE . 


147 


innocent dissipation with Amy, ever since their 
arrival. Although a stranger, she could not 
live without people, and some plan was always 
on foot “ for a good time.” The memory of 
these days made him feverish. He could no 
longer endure the close room. He went out, 
therefore, and, turning his face towards the 
sea, in half an hour he found himself on the 
shore. How different was the scene from that 
lonely walk in the mists of afternoon, when 
he had already told Erminia of his intended 
departure. Then the familiar way was stern, 
and the majesty of grief was his ; but the head- 
land light, gleaming at last upon the grow- 
ing night, became a symbol of hope. Now the 
blaze of noonday covered the broad sands with 
a vivid glare ; the sea danced and sparkled 
fresh with spicy airs ; the white pelican swayed 
upon the blue waves, and the unknown inhab- 
itants of the vast Pacific came to the surface 
with their broad backs to fill him with new 


148 


ASPHODEL 


wonder. All was weird and strange. The 
sands, white as silver, shone like a vast setting 
for the turquoise sea. There was no shade, no 
rest ; the sparkling floor, the dancing waves, 
the flitting birds, quickened and stung his rest- 
lessness. The splendor of the scene height- 
ened the fever of his blood, and with unallayed 
disquiet he returned wearied to his own room. 

To-night, he said to himself, I must tell 
her everything. And while he revolved the 
question in his mind of how he should frame 
his speech, the hours fled and found him still 
uncertain, standing by his horse’s side, dis- 
mounted, at “ The Rosery.” Then Amy ran, 
with her heavy riding-dress gathered up and 
her hat upon her arm, to bid him welcome. 
A blush flooded her face as she took his hand, 
and then faded back quickly, leaving, in spite 
of her gay ways, a look of wan anxiety, which 
Russell observed with pain. His calm man- 
ner, kind yet sad, made her nervous; ajid 


PRESENCE. 


149 


it was a relief to both, when, after the slight 
bustle of departure, they found themselves rid- 
ing alone through the wide green valley. 

For a time neither of them spoke. The 
sun went down behind the snowy peaks and 
left the mountains shining in his stead. The 
nearer slopes grew purple in the dying light. 
The atmosphere was a golden mist, and the 
awe of beauty fell upon their hearts. 

Presently bringing his spirited horse to walk 
by the side of Amy’s gentle steed, Russell 
found courage to begin. He related firmly, yet 
without daring to glance towards her face, 
the history of his early life, Ins love, his suf- 
fering, his desolation. He was about to con- 
tinue, fearing to look before him at what he 
must say, when she suddenly laid her hand 
upon his arm. 

“Do not tell me any more,” she said im- 
patiently, her voice deep and harsh with the 
effort she made to speak, “ I do not ask to 


150 


ASPHODEL . 


know more; I trust you utterly — if — if you 
love me, that is all to me to-niglit . * 

“Amy,” said he, seriously, “you cannot 
know what strange experiences a life like mine 
may involve. From the time — ” 

“Ah, you do not, you do not,” she cried 
piteously, “ or you would not make me suffer 
as I do!” 

He saw it was impossible. How could he 
tell her if she would not listen ? 

“Amy,” he said after a pause, in a low 
tone, “ dare you give yourself to one who has 
so little youth or joy to bring you in return ? 
Will you come and give, up your young 
life to me?” 

He stopped his horse as he spoke, and laid 
his hand upon her bridle. It was well he 
did so, for she flung herself suddenly towards 
him, drowning her answer. 

Far away in the deeps of our consciousness 
lies a power which rises and overwhelms 


PRESENCE. 


151 


the tumultuousness of passion, and stills our 
speech. Sometimes it comes in music and 
sways us by inward melody, sometimes the 
ecstasy and exaltation of prayer involve us, 
and sometimes we recognize the voice of the 
Spirit speaking plainly in us, saying, “ Peace, 
be still ! ” 

We cannot tell how the power shall sway 
another, we can only copy the silence of those 
moments, leaving these indications for each 
one to interpret. 

A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Yan Ranse 
watched from their terrace the approach of 
the two riders, as they cantered briskly up 
through the avenue of oaks. The fire-flies 
were abroad, making almost a network of 
light as they rode on. But they advanced 
rapidly, and the happy parents saw through 
the twilight how Bussell lifted Amy like a 
child from her horse, and kissed her as he 
placed her on the ground. 


152 


ASPHODEL. 


A moment after, Amy’s blushing face told 
the story as she advanced towards them, hold- 
ing Russell by the hand, and he received the 
crowning proof of the confidence of his friends 
in the joy of their fond greeting. 


X. 


AWAKENING. 

JS there any one so deeply rooted in doubt 
with regard to himself and his existence 
as to fancy his life involuted to such a degree 
with the lives and thoughts of others as to 
make him always an actor and never a spec- 
tator in the great drama of the world ? Ask 
the most hurried face haunting our streets, 
or the mother overladen with her cares, and, 
if the story be told truly, we shall find that 
they and all of us must stop and look from 
some crag more solitary than those that Dante 
knew, solitudes where no Yirgil can accom- 
pany, upon the surging river of our life. 

Now, when it seemed Russell had at last 
found companionship, he stood apart from his 
own career and looked upon himself and Amy. 


7 * 


154 


ASPHODEL. 


He saw the happy weeks glide by, and his 
bud expand under the new sunshine. He 
walked by her side, and with tender devotion 
gave her flowers and gentle words. He saw 
her cherishing but one thought, the thought 
of him. Then he wrapped himself in the 
mantle of her affection, and said he had 
found rest. But the lonely figure in the 
awful distance sent a ghostly voice to haunt 
him, crying, “ If thou art beloved, what is that 
to thee?” 

Latterly, however, the sad vision some- 
what faded, perhaps because he was really 
learning to love Amy. Lideed, it needed 
sterner stuff than Bussell not to do so; and 
in the afternoon, when she would run to 
greet him, and he held the little ethereal 
creature in his arms, her light dress flutter- 
ing, as if the bird would fly if he did not 
cling to her, he felt himself absolutely blest, 
and desired nothing further. 


A WAKENING. 


155 


Amy had awakened to a new existence. 
Those cunning Greeks, with their Pygmalion 
fable, only gave their tale a name that so it 
might float more securely on all the tides of 
time. The delicate color flashed and faded 
on her cheek, and her voice in singing learned 
a pathos which only the power of Love can 
teach. She would sometimes sing his songs, 
— perhaps she liked them best; and then it 
might be that the tears would conquer, and 
she would find herself sobbing on her lover’s 
breast. A perfect April in her changing 
moods, Russell at first could hardly under- 
stand her, till he discovered that his manner, 
oftentimes preoccupied, and his face, with its 
many shadows, were incomprehensible to her 
and filled her with alarm. Then her piercing 
“ Do you love me, Russell ? ” restored him to 
his duty and his tender ways, until she smiled 
again and found no flaw in his perfection. 
Even her father and mother were satisfied 


156 


ASPHODEL. 


with Russell’s devotion to their darling. He 
returned daily at an early hour to “ The 
Rosery,” bearing something new and beauti- 
ful to delight her; every day he found it 
more difficult, for his own sake, to absent 
himself, even for a short time. Perhaps he 
feared a shadowy hand might tear them 
apart forever, and snap his slender blossom. 

It was late one night when Russell was re- 
turning to his lodging. The calmness of the 
hour, and the stars, drooping and swaying, in 
their apparent nearness, from the concave'sky, 
brought him peace, and gratitude for his pres- 
ent happiness. He resolved to conquer any 
opposition Amy’s parents could suggest, and 
to make her his wife as soon as possible, that 
the old feeling of home might come back to 
him again. 

He thought of his shining flower as she 
might bloom for him alone in some retire- 
ment. The new influence swaying her life 


A WAKENING. 


157 


and developing her womanhood had so trans- 
figured her that Russell believed he could 
secure her happiness. He must claim her 
from her parents and take her wholly to him- 
self. This was no easy task certainly. But 
had they not given him their promise? 

With this determination he entered the 
house, and stirred the fire, which the night- 
winds made comfortable even at this season, 
and prepared to write to Herbert. He could 
advance no further in his plans until he had 
told his friend everything. The logs flamed 
and sputtered while he reflected what he 
should write, and presently, by their unequal 
gleam, he discovered the mail, which had ar- 
rived and been placed on a side-table. He 
lighted a candle, therefore, and hastened, in- 
stead, to read his letters. There was one 
from Erminia, punctual to her promise. He 
broke that seal first. 

“My friend, — dear Russell,” it began, “I 


158 


ASPHODEL. 


could not keep your ring, because I knew not 
what it signified. Its arrival startled me and 
I could not write. Now I feel I must speak 
with you. I did not require a mere proof 
of your esteem and confidence, for is not Fan- 
ny mine? — yours and mine? Did the ring 
mean, then, 4 1 love you ’ ? 0 Russell, I can- 

not, I dare not believe it. You never said that 
to me, by look or sign, till the ring arrived, 
and I am not fitted to be your wife. But 
my confidence in you is so deep and unshaken, 
that I have made a resolution, if you are de- 
tained beyond the appointed time, to go to 
you with Fanny. It is the child’s idea as 
well as mine. She droops and fades at the 
thought of longer separation ; and I — I must 
speak witlr you face to face, Russell.” 

Here the letter ended abruptly. He sat 
still as stone where he had first broken the 
seal, the cold drops .suffusing his forehead. 
He neither moved nor seemed to himself to 


A WAKENING. 


159 


think. Presently the thought of Erminia’s 
coming aroused him. The picture of her pres- 
ence, vivid as reality, advancing, full of faith, 
through Amy’s rose-garden, was painted, like 
a warning vision, before his sight. He looked 
and saw her sad, reposing eyes ; then he heard 
a low, mournful cry, and the scene had van- 
ished. Pressing his hands upon his head, 
to assure himself that he was awake, he 
murmured, u She shall not come ! Heaven 
forbid her coming ! ” Snatching a pen, he 
wrote hurriedly, “ Erminia, do not leave 4 The 
Cliff.’ Comfort Fanny ; but tell her she must 
not follow me. Ho not come, do not follow, 
but wait.” 

That was all. Then he rushed out to speed 
the missive on its way. Wandering long, 
after his errand was accomplished, under the 
clear, mild sky, he passed suddenly beyond 
the rows of tall stone houses into the wil- 
derness of the hills. The late moon hung 


160 


ASPHODEL. 


pale and waning, a symbol of departed joys, 
above his head, and in the far east he saw, 
before he was aware, a dim and languid line 
of light. He returned to his lodging at that 
sign, as if the finger of day shamed his dark 
spirit. Although he lay down utterly ex- 
hausted when he arrived, he could not sleep ; 
spectres with sad, loving eyes, and forms he 
knew only too well, crowded around his 
couch, crying, “ No sleep, no rest ! ” 

At length the dawn was unveiled, leading 
in the day without a cloud. How those 
sleepless eyes longed for the dim, shrouding 
mists of his native shore. He could not bear 
the glaring eye of the sun. Each ray seemed 
to burn the wrong he had done, in upon his 
soul. He must arise and put all thought 
of Erminia, as he had put all hope, behind 
him. She was no longer to companion his 
quiet hours. He must see his lily from afar, 
abloom in other gardens, prodigal of perfume 
for the purified. 


A WAKENING. 


161 


He only repeated tlie sad old words, “It 
might have been ” ; — then with deep lines 
upon his face he walked out to gather strength 
from the day, if possible, for the work which 
lay before him. He must do it quickly now, 
that, when there was no undoing, he should 
be able to return and carry Amy to his friends, 
and let her presence tell them all that was 
needful to be said. 

But he feared to think of her at “The 
Cliff.” It was like fancying one of her own 
fawns shut away from the free range of the 
park.; or to picture her in his own lonely 
house, with Fanny, with the library, and the 
sighing of the yellow pines for sole companions 
during many hours of each day ; — that was 
equally impossible. What would his little 
butterfly do but beat and bruise her wings 
in such a solitude ! It was not to be thought 
of. Beside, could he take this darling of their 
eyes away from her parents, and leave them 


162 


ASPHODEL. 


desolate in their exile? No; he must stay 
with them for a few months, when, haply, 
it would be possible for them all to return 
together. In .the mean time he must write 
to Herbert, to Alice, and — to Erminia. He 
repeated the words, as if dreaming, “ to Er- 
minia.” 

“ I need not write either to-day or to-morrow, 
— not until Amy is mine,” Russell thought. 
He had done his best, and had written, telling 
Erminia not to come. Now all was safe, and 
he could put away anxiety with regard to her 
movements. If he had proved himself un- 
worthy of her devotion, Amy loved him well, 
and would forgive him when the time came 
for explanation. He could not be unhappy 
with these thoughts now ; it was time to go to 
“ The Rosery.” But a voice whispered, Have 
you so soon forgiven yourself ? 

The passing days and . weeks, each a jewel 
in the circlet of the loving one, crowned 


A WAKENING. 


163 


Amy with new brilliance. Her parents moved 
before her, as it were, to put aside every thorn 
and make her every path a way of flowers. 
Her wish was theirs. Therefore, when one 
night she whispered to them, “ Russell says 
when the next moon is grown he shall claim 
me,” they did not wonder at his haste, but 
gave her generously. 

And again the days revolved, and brought 
the two — youth and maturity, rapture and 
desire — before the awful gate of marriage. 
For her, the gate was built of flowers, rising 
and winding to a lofty arch.' She would keep 
them always fresh, wreathed with bright new 
buds ! But Russell shuddered, knowing the 
iron limitations of that way, and bowed his 
head, stooping in sign of humility and rever- 
ence as he passed through. 


XI. 


\ 


COURAGE. 

“ PEE, mamma, he has taken the biscuit 
right out of my hand,” Ernest ex- 
claimed, the color flaming in his clear bright 
cheeks ; “ but see, Ally, she ’s afraid ! Why, 
the deer would take it right out of her hand, 
too, if she were n’t so frightened.” 

Alice and Erminia walked together past the 
deer-park in the city garden, watching the en- 
deavors of poor Ally to find heart to let the 
creature put his big nose so near her little 
hand, while Ernest exulted over her and thrust 
his arm, full length, between the palings. 

“ There is a good contrast,” remarked Alice, 
“ between bravery and courage, in those chil- 
dren. Where the latter is needed Ally is 
strong. I wish I could feel as sure of Er- 
nest.” 


COURAGE. 


165 


And while the children amused themselves 
with the deer, the two friends strolled on. 
Presently espying a touch of white like a snow- 
flake among the greening grass, Erminia knelt 
down to look more closely. “ Alice, ” she 
exclaimed ; “ we have lived through our win- 
ter!’’ And as she spoke she smiled upon 
her friend, who felt the look a benediction. 

“ He whose face gives no light shall never become a star.” 

They took this snowdrop as the signal for 
their departure from the town, where, al- 
though many friends and pleasant neighbors 
urged them to remain, their household rest 
beckoned them away, with desire not to be 
resisted. They longed to follow the footsteps 
of the spring, and to give themselves more en- 
tirely to the children, and to lead them again 
to Nature. 

This had been Alice’s first experience of 
the irreligion of the city with regard to chil- 
dren. These heaven-taught democrats she 


166 


ASPHODEL. 


saw clad, by ambitious parents, in velvet 
frocks, and taught to become “respecters of 
persons.” Holy Paul did not speak of dis- 
respecters of persons ; but where respect is 
paid to worldly distinction, the converse — dis- 
respect — is shown to the lack of it, and thus 
an irreligion is instilled which finds its daily 
expression in bad manners. 

She was inexpressibly shocked by what is 
fitly styled the “bad breeding” of many 
children whose parents were quite able to 
guide them differently, if they did not allow 
themselves to be absorbed in fashionable la- 
bors for Kansas, Port Royal, or Timbuctoo 
(for we would not quarrel with any form of 
charity), or, what is still more degrading, in 
fashionable labors for society’s sake simply. 
They told Alice they feared their children 
could not have companions or “ desirable ac- 
quaintances” enough if they educated them 
by themselves. She did not reply to these 


COURAGE. 


167 


remarks, but when she returned to Erminia 
they talked them over together. 

“ Any way, I can do something by example,” 
she said one day, half-despairingly. “ I could 
n’t bear to hear them talk so, but what good 
would discussion do? Let us take our chil- 
dren and return to 4 The Cliff.’ What they 
need is health and development, and to find 
resources for themselves, not excitement. As 
for friendship, children of eight, ten, and 
twelve do not understand the word as we 
find it diluted here. It is something quite 
different from the rapturous affection Fanny 
holds for Ernest and Ally and they for her. 
To be sure, the innocence of children sweet- 
ens everything, even baby parties; but I do 
not see what is gained by three afternoon 
routs a week, except the increased danger of 
losing their precious jewels of simplicity and 
unconsciousness. I think our children will 
neither learn to become unsocial nor selfish,” 


168 


ASPHODEL. 


and Alice smiled at the thought. “It was 
delightful to see Hettie and Charlie rush out 
of the house as I went through the village 
last week, on my way to ‘The Cliff.’ They 
thought our children had come, and their 
happiness knew no bounds.” 

“How glad I shall be to see them again,” 
said Erminia. Yet as she spoke a swift 
shadow, like those that sheet the “windy 
gleams” of March, overspread her face. She 
felt it would be hard to live once more 
where every spot was haunted by- vanished 
footsteps. 

“ Yes, indeed!” and Alice answered without 
one reservation. “Our schools in the village, 
both on Sunday and Wednesday, repay us for 
our trouble admirably. I suppose this town 
experience has been good, dear; it is almost 
nothing but pleasure to teach at home. The 
children there are cleanly and curious to learn. 
Here the terrible poverty and degradation seem 


COURAGE. 


169 


to fix a gulf between us. Alas that it should 
be so! What a sin if we suffer this fleshly 
soiling to divide soul from soul! When we 
all wear the purified garments of eternity, 
some who appear fair here must be bidden 
to the lowest place.” 

“Yes; but I believe this labor lias nearly 
overpowered me. I long now for ‘ The Cliff.’ ” 
And Erminia spoke with such a sad, worn 
manner, that Alice looked up surprised. She 
wondered that she had not observed before 
how much Erminia needed change and the 
freedom of her old life. Her face was very 
pale, and the sorrowful drooping lines about 
the mouth were unrelieved by any smile. 

“We will return to-morrow, dear. ’T is 
no matter if the place is not quite ready. 
Everything will go on the better for a little 
supervision. We will send the maids early, 
and we ourselves will arrive at sundown.” 
She looked up as she spoke, hoping to catch 


8 


170 


ASPHODEL. 


Erminia’s smile, but the sad face seemed un- 
conscious of her words, like one listening to 
voices others could not hear. 

Alice did not know Russell had written to 
Erminia. The story of the ring could be 
divulged to no one, not even to her friend. 
“I must bear it alone,” she said to herself. 
Therefore the ring came and went, and the 
letter followed, while Alice marvelled that 
Russell wrote so seldom, and hastened back 
to “ The Cliff” partly because she anticipated 
his speedy return. Erminia did not undeceive 
her. His name never passed her lips except 
to Fanny, and then in a manner the child 
could not comprehend, as though necessity 
compelled it. Sometimes at night, after she 
had kissed the downy little cheek and tucked 
her charge well into her snug bed, she would 
say, “There has been news from your papa 
to-day, Fanny; he is well, and sends a kiss 
to you, his darling.” 


COURAGE . 


171 


“ Is lie coming home soon ? ” the child 
would respond quickly. 

“He does not say so, dear.” 

“ Then we will go to him. Will you write 
him a good letter, and say that we will 
come ? ” 

One night, the child becoming inconsolable 
at her father’s long absence, Erminia could 
not soothe her to sleep until she had half 
confessed her own determination, and promised 
to go, if, after writing, no message were re- 
turned in answer which should prevent them. 

Alice was right. They were all happier at 
“ The Cliff.” For herself, who knew the 
birds as they came with every succeeding day 
and week of the opening spring, absence was 
a continued homesickness, a separation from 
good friends. She wished her children to 
find where the first hepatica hid itself, and 
to watch the buds of ash and willow, beech 
and birch, in their unfolding. For Er- 


172 


ASPHODEL. 


minia, whose happiness as well as sadness 
lingered around the place, Nature stood, as 
ever, ready with a tenderness which seemed 
full of sympathy for her tired heart and the 
smothered fire which consumed her. 

But this repose was not long to be theirs. 
It was only to them, what it should ever 
be in this fleeting experience . we call life, a 
period when we hold ourselves ready to an- 
swer the calling for which we are ordained, 
a pause, a gathering of the forces and a 
clearing of the vision, that we may see how 
poor is our own power, how mighty the 
spirit of God working within us. 

Therefore it was, one day, when Alice went 
to Herbert because he needed her, and went 
she knew not precisely whither, that she de- 
parted calmly, girded with true courage, for 
she stood like the Virgins of old, with her 
lamp trimmed and burning. 

When Alice, departed, Fanny watched the 


COURAGE . 


173 


carriage quite out of sight, and then turned 
to Erminia, her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Kiss me, please,” she whispered, as her 
beloved companion pressed her close, “kiss 
me and comfort me a great deal, for Aunt 
Alice has gone now, and Uncle Herbert, and 
dear papa, and we are very lonely, and must 
love each other very dearly. I thought we 
should go to papa soon ; but we cannot leave 
Ally and Ernest, can we, darling? We must 
wait till Aunt Alice comes back.” 

Erminia caught Fanny in her arms and 
felt herself comforted as she embraced her. 
How like Edith’s heavenly self-denial was this 
child’s thoughtfulness for others, in spite of 
the one absorbing desire to follow her father ! 
How like Russell was .that tender, passionate 
expression of grief and disappointment! 

The silent days moved past, leaving the 
diminished household like a ship becalmed. 
No breath of news came to waft them into 


174 


ASPHODEL. 


the port of hope, until at length a word of 
cheer came back from Alice ; and before late 
violets had departed another carriage slowly 
advanced towards the house, and Herbert’s 
room was again thrown open. There he 
entered and lay through the ripening spring 
and the perfecting summer, utterly calm and 
content. 

“I feel that I should never have returned, 
except for her,” he said one day to Erminia, 
glancing, as he spoke, towards his wife. 

Alice seeing the look, and fancying lie 
wished her, came towards them, and Herbert 
said no more upon the subject then ; but once, 
when she was away with the children, he took 
occasion to recount to Erminia the long story 4 
of her wanderings and endeavors in his be- 
half. 

“ She suffered so much,” he continued, 

“ from anxiety and the terrible scenes she 
passed through, that I do not like to recall 


COURAGE . 


175 


the incidents to her mind; for the grief of 
earth passes and does not touch our immor- 
talities, except as purification, but the beauty 
of life is tarnished when we suffer ourselves 
to dwell on the obscurities of pain.” 

The winds of spring were at last lulled into 
the sighing breath of summer; the sun lin- 
gered westward and blossomed early in the 
east once more, and brought the infinite magic 
of midsummer, with his lengthened presence. 
The joyousness of Alice lay deep and pure 
within her, a quiet sea where the heavens 
were reflected, an unending fountain of peace 
and happiness for others. “I was born for 
this,” she would say, “to bring sunshine; 
I feel sure of it, for the light shines even 
when I have cause to be most sad.” 

That household calm and never-failing uni- 
son of Nature jarred on the unresting heart 
of Erminia. She had written to Kussell she 


176 


ASPHODEL. 


should sail with Fanny if no answer came. 
Was he not already awaiting them? The 
idea haunted her. When she walked and 
watched the sea, the waves told her they 
had left him lingering on that other shore, 
and their restless feet returning and return- 
ing ever, with the same low murmur urged 
her to depart. “ He will not write ; he waits, 
he waits ! ” Then first she knew the sickness 
of irresolution. The wavering lights which 
beckoned her, changed sometimes, as she rose 
to follow, into marish deceit. She would walk 
then and pray upon the sands, and ask for 
guidance, until new strength would arise with- 
in her. One day, as a wild sea-gull darted 
through the thick mist and flew with strong, 
determined wing far over the waves,, where 
no eye could pierce his distant course, Er- 
minia said, “The bird shall be my emblem. 
I will take the child and follow. Shall not 
a mustard-seed of faith bear me even as the 
sea-winds bear the bird ? ” 


I 


/ 


COURAGE. 177 

Wlien evening came, she knocked at Her- 
bert’s door. She knew Alice was by his side, 

and it would be better, she believed, to tell 

/ 

them of her determination, as they sat to- 
gether, rather than expose herself alone to 

* 

Alice’s frank questioning or manifest disap- 
proval. It was a difficult task. She felt 
herself grow cold as she touched the handle. 

But her resolve was perfect. 

“I have come to tell you,” she said, after 
a few words had been exchanged and when 
the first pause gave opportunity, “ that I have 
decided to take Fanny to her father. He has 
been detained, as you know, beyond his in- 
tended absence and the child mourns for him. 

The voyage may benefit her health somewhat, 
even thgugh we should return immediately. 
Beside,” she added slowly, in a clear low voice, 
a slight blush staining her brow for an instant, 

“ he has written to me upon a personal matter 
once since his absence, to which I can only 


8 * 


L 


178 


ASPHODEL. 


answer fitly face to face. Therefore I con- 
fess,” she said, looking up for the first time 
with a gentle smile, “ that I am going to Rus- 
sell as well as Fanny.” 

Herbert was lying on the couch as she en- 
tered, his face turned towards the window ; 
for, although it was quite dark, he liked to 
watch the glimmer of the light-house return- 
ing through the mist, and listen to the low- 
voiced women as they were accustomed to sit 
and talk beside him. But to-night there was 
something in Erminia’s tone which caused 
him to turn towards her when she first 
began to speak, and before she ended he 
was leaning forward, reclining on his hand 
with a look of anxious wonder. 

She was silent a moment, and no one broke 
the stillness. Presently she added, “ You are 
nearer to me than any the earth holds, there- 
fore I wish to tell you what there is to tell. 
I do not go with any definite plan for myself; 
I wish to understand Mm more clearly.” 


COURAGE. 


179 


“ Erminia,” said Alice, her womanly in- 
stinct rising in revolt, “do not go!” And 
her voice pleaded so earnestly in the words 
that Erminia rose and walked across the room, 
as if to break the force of the appeal. Then 
she returned and stood before Herbert. 

“May I go?” she asked with a strange 
mixture of imperiousness and childish im- 
petuosity. “ It rests with you more than with 
Alice. Russell is your friend. If he is a 
man of honor tell me now to go.” 

The sick man fairly quailed before her in- 
tensity. Her eyes burned as she fixed them 
eagerly upon him, trying to read his answer 
by the lightning of a look before the words 
could come. 

“You are a woman,” he said, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, “ capable of deciding upon 
this matter better than we are able to do, 
who cannot entirely i / jrstand the reasons 
for your departure. We shall not question 


180 


ASPHODEL. 


your decision. Russell is a man of honor, 
and you our household friend and compan- 
ion. We do not lose you willingly, but we 
will not keep you, Erminia.” 

Again the color flashed over her fair face 
and tears stood in her eyes. She anticipated 
struggle, opposition, and remonstrance. But 
this loving confidence seemed more than she 
could bear. She sank slowly down, buried 
her head upon the couch, and wept convul- 
sively. 


V 


XII. 


THE VOYAGE. 

TT'ANNY stood with her arms about her 
friend, and both looked silently back 
upon the pier. There was no friendly face 
to say farewell ; their eyes were fixed be- 
yond, and their hearts were away with the 
dear ones they had left. Erminia was ab- 
sorbed in gazing on the vision of the past, 
but the child came between her and it, flash- 
ing the joy of youth and the magic of the 
present over its vanishing pictures. When 
the shore had at last faded to a line, she 
took Fanny by the hand, and turned bravely 
towards her future. 

They had many companions in their voyage, 
many who liked to talk and question and 
while the hours away in harmless speculation 


i 


182 


ASPHODEL . 


upon the affairs of tlieir fellow-travellers, upon 
their position and purpose and relation to the 
world. Although they desired to shun ob- 
servation as far as possible, the sweet grace 
which marked Erminia and the nestling love 
of Fanny did not suffer them to escape com- 
ment. The two were almost inseparable, for 
one purpose and one interest served to beacon 
and absorb both ; and while the favoring winds 
blew the ship lightly on her way, Erminia 
merged all shadows in the light which was 
to come, and talked with Fanny of her father 
through long afternoons till the child’s face 
grew radiant. Her very eyes drank into 
themselves something of Erminia’ s beauty, 
as if the woman breathed upon her living 
form as (j fiie prophet did upon the dead, of 
old. Once it happened, when the winds were 
cold and she had sent her little companion 
below for thick shawls, a fellow-voyager came 
and talked with her about “her child,” and 


THE VOYAGE. 


183 


said how strong the likeness was between the 
two, and asked the age of Fanny. Erminia, 
careless of his words, answered his question 
kindly, but found no voice to say, “ She is 
not mine. ,, 

Thus the days fled with them until .they too 
sailed upon Pacific seas. How like the calm 
of passion glimmered those pure depths ! Er- 
minia would hang in happy silence, gazing, 
and rocked in peace by the long, placid 
waves ; feeling herself upborne like the snowy 
birds around her, yet never careless in her 
flight as they. She was centred and at rest ; 
resting in a light of which this glory was but 
a dim foreshadowing, since nature can but 
feed the fire of love and be its wide expression. 

“Tell me what it means,” the ch id would 
say in wonder as she looked upon the un- 
known sea. Then Erminia told her the story 
of the fragrant winds; how they came from 
afar, where the glowing islands lie waving 


184 


ASPHODEL . 


with trees of spice which fling their heavy 
perfumes out upon the moveless air ; and 
how the breezes come and fetch away the 
odors, and bring them in their gentle arms 
to wave them “over sailing Ships’’ toward the 
western shore. 

But the mystery of this new beauty re- 
mained forever unexplained to her young 
listener, who would sit while hours bloomed 
and faded to hear the legends of the Orient 
seas ; of the purple islands rising from the 
deep ; of springing palms unfolding to the sun ; 
of coral beds glistening with red and pink, 
that yesterday were not, and to-day gladden 
the eyes of wanderers, in those unknown, 
mysterious waters. 

Nor was that other tale forgotten, wild and 
sad, of a marble city, with its carven spires 
and solemn chiming bells, that rose and blos- 
somed into beauty and grew in mystic grace, 
until the silent waves arose transparent and 


THE VOYAGE. 


185 


drew it down into crystal deeps, while the 
solemn bells still chimed. And even now 
the brave adventurer, it is said, can discover 
those glimmering spires shining like shafts 
of opal beneath the ocean floor. w 

And the child replied : “ Shall we also seek 
that city after we have found my father, — 
we three ? ” 

And while she told the legends which in- 
vest those gorgeous seas, and the sunsets 
stained the watery world with brilliance such 
as they had never before known, the glowing 
light of hope and love beamed upon Fanny’s 
life, making each tale more glorious, each 
vision more divine. This inexpressible lustre 
seemed to irradiate itself from Erminia over 
the being of her charge while they stood 
together as if enfolded by one great joy. 

Again the circling days die into happy 
nights, and with the blush of a new morning 


186 


ASPHODEL. 


the stately ship lifts her head joyfully as she 
comes into her port. The crowded pier 
glitters with shifting colors ; many men of 
many races hurry to and fro, but all is weird 
and strange to the pair who “ stand and wait.” 
Erminia smiles at the thought that she ex- 
pected Russell here, for how should he know 
they had come ; but Fanny cries, “ Papa, papa, 
where are you ? ” and one fellow-passenger as 
he passes them asks if he can serve them, 
and another if he can help her find her 
husband, while she stands irresolute, unre- 
garding what they say, as if listening for 
one voice, her only compass. 

It was too late to listen now. The voice 
expressed within a little folded sheet was hid- 
den where she would never see it, — on the 
door-way of their deserted city home. She 
must go on blindly ; there was no light, no 
guide to beckon ; they were children together, 
gone astray. 


XIII. 


A FESTIVAL. 

There are festivals of life and of death. 

T T OW beautiful was that summer morning 
at “ The Rosery ! ” Amy awoke with 
the early waking birds, and her heart sang 
with them. She said, “ To-day he comes and 
will go away no more.” She knew no fear, 
pet of fortune that she was, nor even what 
to fear. Everybody’s darling, she did not find 
it strange Russell should love her! She ac- 
cepted it simply as the rounding of the sphere 
of her life’s happiness. 

The hours of the morning passed, every 
moment leaving its record on her quickened 
consciousness of beauty and of gladness. For 
the culminations of joy and sorrow teach us 
what is eternity, as labor or as speech can 


188 


ASPHODEL. 


never do. When at length the symbolic robe 
of white fluttered about her, the maid who 
placed the crown of blossoms said, “ She had 
served many brides, but never one who held 
the flowers for her with so steady a hand.” 
And they were hardly arranged before Russell 
came, pale and nervous. The shadowy days 
that lay behind had brought their spectres 
up tilk he felt unequal to his fate ; they 
would not let him sleep of late, and the dark 
finger of unrest had drawn black lines be- 
neath his eyes. Therefore he came early, 
earlier than even Amy looked for him, and 
at last grew quiet under her petting ways. 

She was like her old sweet self. The air 
of happiness, often intoxicating to others, was 
native strength to her, and now all anxiety, 
all pain was gone, — for what could touch 
her further? The little household caught 
the contagion of her spirit and became calm 
and cloudless as the afternoon itself before 
the wedding guests arrived. 


A FESTIVAL . 


189 


Through the long hours of that day, bril- 
liant with a sky burned to deep lustre through 
long cloudless weeks, nature was at rest, save 
for the throbbing of the heated airs like the 
earth’s visible pulse. But our wanderers 
rested not. Unwearyingly they searched the 
wide, strange city for one who was their world. 
They forgot fatigue, and when at last they 
found a person who could show them where 
he lived, they were excited by a new fire of 
anticipation which made the former hours 
look pale. It was already noon before they 
reached the dwelling. They passed the porter 
swiftly, as they entered, asking with eagerness 
for the master of the house. A kind face 
presented itself in answer, but glanced un- 
easily upon them, as Erminia made her in- 
quiry. It was not possible to mistake Fanny ; 
she was his child; — and the lady? Yet the 
man answered kindly, saying this had formerly 
been the home of the gentleman she men 


190 


ASPHODEL. 


tioned, and his books yet remained, although 
his guest had gone. He was about to live out 
of the city ; but, if the lady would wait and 
dine, he would send a messenger to fetch him. 

“ No,” said Erminia gently, “I thank you, 
but, if you please, we will refresh ourselves 
for an hour and then go to him. Will you 
have the horses ready in that time ? ” 

The man led the way as she spoke towards 
Russell’s apartment, now deserted, and, having 
ushered them in, bowed in silence and retired. 
In a moment he returned. 

“ May I not send for your friend while you 
rest here?” he inquired once more, “you — 
you will find the drive fatiguing, perhaps.” 

“ No, thank you,” said Erminia again 
brightly, “we shall prefer to go. We are 
not at all fatigued.” 

She spoke the truth, for, when the man 
re-opened the door, he thought he had seldom 
seen a more refreshing picture. A little worn 


A FESTIVAL. 


191 


copy of Dante lay upon the floor, which he 
had often seen in the pocket of the poet. 
This the child had espied, and was in the 
very act of catching up and kissing it when 
the lady turned the loving face up to hers 
as if she too would kiss something of his, 
and had only been prevented by that sudden 
re-entrance. 

Asking pardon for having disturbed them, 
he again shut the door. He had done his 
best to clog the wheels of destiny, but he 
found himself involved instead in their swift 
and perilous course. 

It was mid-afternoon before they were on 
their way, the good man of the house him- 
self accompanying them. Although he had 
made the best speed possible, the difficulty 
of procuring any vehicle seemed at first to be 
insurmountable. 

“ There is to be a wedding this afternoon,” 
he remarked, by way of apology, as he opened 


192 


ASPHODEL. 


the carriage door, “ and all the good carriages 
have gone.” 

“ This will do,” said Erminia, as Fanny 
followed her lightly into it, “ if . the horses 
will not linger.” 

She did not observe the uneasy look of the 
man as he sprung up to his seat. She only 
knew that his horses flew over the road, and 
that he urged them on to their fullest speed. 

The sea-breeze fanned her lovely hair as 
they drove. Fanny kissed her and said, “ How 
beautiful you are ! I remember papa likes 
beautiful persons.” 

A color like pink sea-shells shone on her 
cheeks, and the long white plumes of her 
hat were lifted in the breeze, and her heavy 
blue dress seemed no longer close and warm, 
but cool and fitting for the time. She was 
glad that Fanny thought her beautiful ! 
Would he think so too? 

Still they drove onward ; the country be- 


A FESTIVAL. 


193 


came more wild and the hills drew nearer 
on either hand. “Do you know how far it 
is ? ” she asked by and by, with a shadow 
of anxiety in her voice, as the level rays of 
the sun warned them of his departure. 

“I thought I was near it long ago,” said 
the man doubtfully. “I’m afraid we ’ve 
passed it. I ’m sorry, for I wanted you to 
get there soon.” 

As he spoke he turned his horses, and, see- 
ing something which at last he recognized, 
they drove in another direction till the sun 
had fairly set. Then suddenly he stopped. 

“ There ’s the house where he is, I believe, 
over there ; but they ’ve got company, and 
the avenue is filled with carriages. Suppose 
I stop here by this grove while you walk up 
by the footpath towards the house.” 

Erminia thanked him for his kindness, and 
leaping out, followed by Fanny, she started 
to find Russell. 


9 


M 


194 


ASPHODEL. 


The shadows had fallen on the fragrant 
garden, and all was silent, except the creak- 
ing cry of the crickets and the hoarse blurt- 
ing of the frogs from a short distance, which 
only made the stillness more profound. But 
noise and stillness were one to her. She 
heeded neither. They advanced swiftly over 
the gleaming thread-like path, skirted on one 
hand by vast primeval trees, which had been 
suffered to stand with their dignity unshorn, 
like stately warders of the place. Suddenly 
they emerged upon the rose-garden, where for 
the first time the splendor of the gayly-illu- 
mined house burst upon them. 

Then indeed they felt the utter silence, for 
their very hearts stood mute. Erminia stopped 
one instant and pressed her hand to her head, 
as if to regain her dazzled sight, and then 
darted forward to within a few feet of the 
long, brilliant window, where, standing in the 
deep shadow of a thorn-tree, herself unseen, 


A FESTIVAL. 


195 


the whole interior and every spoken word were 
revealed. 

Under a lamp of sparkling, drooping crys- 
tal she saw a woman standing, young and 
fair, with the tenderness of angels on her 
face (she saw that first), — then, by her 
side 

The holy priest had raised his loving hands 
in benediction, when a loud, long shriek, the 
one cry of a smitten heart, cut with its sharp 
agony into the peace and stillness of the 
room. 

The guests started tumultuously, for the 
ceremony was now ended, and Amy turned 
to Russell, bewildered, like a half-awakened 
child. But he stood unmoved apparently, 
feeling as if grown to stone ; for he heard 
the voice of Fanny now, above the idle ques- 
tionings around him, crying, “ Papa, help 
me ! ” 

“Amy,” he said presently in a low, stern 


196 


ASPHODEL. 


voice, which startled her, while the guests 
began to crowd around them with gay con- 
gratulations, endeavoring to drown the mem- 
ory of that dreadful cry, “ Amy, do not follow 
me, — I am not well,” — and he rushed sud- 
denly from her side, out into the darkness 
and the shadows of the grove. 

Again he heard the voice of his child ap- 
pealing to him, as the angels of the sinful 
ones may cry, leaning out of heaven, plead- 
ing with them in their hours • of weakness ; 
with such plaintive eagerness the tone came 
to him. 

He ran forward till he reached the well- 
known path, where it opened on the rose- 
garden, to the very spot where lie had looked 
for Amy’s sign of welcome through so many 
months, — a sign that never failed and a joy * 
that never wearied. 

There on the damp ground, with her hands 
thrown up over the huge root of an oak-tree, 


A FESTIVAL. 


197 


where, as she rushed away from the garden, 
she had fallen, there he found Erminia, and, 
sitting by her side, his weeping child. 

Fanny sprang to him as he approached, and 
threw herself upon his neck, and laid her cold 
wet cheek to his. “ 0 papa, papa ! now it is 
all over,” she sobbed. “ We have travelled, 
we have waited, and I thought we should 
not find you ! But now all is past. Do you 
think it will kill her, dear papa, to be so 
glad? She ran almost up to the house and 
saw you first, because I was caught by a 
bramble; presently she gave a cry, and then 
came running back to me, and — dear papa, 
do kneel down ! Let us help her ! Perhaps 
she is hurt.’’ And the child laid her cheek, 
drowned in the tears of grief and joy, close to 
the chilly face of the fainting woman, as if 
she would urge her back to consciousness. 

Russell stood a moment gazing down irreso- 
lute. He dared not touch that sacred breath- 


198 


ASPHODEL. 


ing form, his victim. At last he stooped, and 
gently drew the drooping head and tightly- 
clenched hands away from the damp earth 
up into his strong arms. 

His touch aroused her. She sprang to her 
feet, staggering away from his embrace. 44 Fan- 
ny, we do not love this man,” she said wildly, 
“ do we, child ? But I ’ll tell you whom we 
love,” and she laughed with that weird, cruel 
laugh of a distracted mind, 44 we love this 
person who is coming.” 

Her senses, sharpened to unnatural quick- 
ness, had caught the sound of Amy’s light, 
uncertain footstep on the walk, before the 
others had suspected her approach. 

44 Papa ! ” said Fanny, weeping, and hiding 
her face as Amy’s ghost-like form appeared, 
44 what is it ? I am frightened, papa.” 

44 Russell,” said Amy, moving past Erminia 
still as moonlight, “look at mo and tell me 
if this woman holds a claim upon you ? ” 


A FESTIVAL. 


199 


Her voice was very deep and hoarse, and 
at its sound Russell’s agony visibly increased. 
Her lace dress swayed in the fatal wind and 
her waiting feet were stayed among night-dews. 
Yet she stood as one who would wait forever 
till his answer came. 

“ Little girl,” said Erminia, violently seizing 
Amy’s hand, who became somewhat alarmed, 
in spite of the calm which possessed her, by 
the wild eyes she turned upon her, “this man 
is nothing to me, 0 no! Let us come to the 
house together and join the dance ; and then 
we will go, Fanny and I. You shall dance 
with Fanny ; she ’s about your age, you know, 
and I ’ll take this gentleman.” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said Russell, trying to still 
the torment of her words. “ Amy,” he con- 
tinued, turning to his wife and holding Fanny 
still clasped to his breast, “she has indeed no 
claim stronger than that of gratitude. She 
has loved Fanny much, and to-night I must 


200 


ASPHODEL. 


go with them and protect them. They cannot 
remain here. You must trust me, Amy, and 
return alone. Can you do this for me?” 

She did not speak, but stepped to where 
he stood, half-reclining against a tree, holding 
his trembling child. Then she kissed him, 
and, without look or sign of wavering, passed, 
faithful, back towards the house.. 

But Erminia sank as their lips touched, 
and lay like death upon the cold ground. 


XIV. 


A WEDDING-NIGHT. 

HE slow moon had ascended, and now 



silvered the mighty tree-tops, her light 
falling in broken gleams upon the road. The 
landscape, with its tawny hills and brawling 
streams, and the savage wildness of the val- 
leys through which the travellers passed, grew 
more wild and more savage as the white rays 
made the dead black shadows blacker than 
in the darkest night. 

The chilling winds talking in the branches 
were the only sounds except the moving of 
the swift wheels. The cold white face of 
Erminia was pillowed upon Fanny’s shoulder, 
and the beautiful hair, straying down, lay 
tangled and damp on the thin, relaxing fingers. 
Russell sat opposite, bowed and stunned; he 


9 * 


202 


ASPHODEL . 


saw himself, the worshipped of the world, 
among vain praisers of his beauty both of 
body and of mind; he heard the changes 
rung upon his learning and divine genius, 
until, cloyed and wearied, he longed for some- 
thing worthier; then he saw himself again, 
yielding to the satisfaction of this praise, and 
forgetful of one, who, walking nobly herself, 
asked for nobility in her beloved. He had 
indeed gone down into the valley of humilia- 
tion. No one perhaps would ever know the 
failure of his life. But was it therefore less 
a failure that it was known to none save 
himself and his God? 

The agony was his to bear alone. The 
sighing trees moaned as they passed, and in 
their moaning he seemed to hear the old 
Scripture fiat, like the dirge for his soul, 
“ Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin,” — Thou art 
weighed in the balances , and art found wanting. 

As they entered the room where he had 


A WEDDING-NIGHT. 203 

passed so many restless niglits a horror thrilled 
him. This experience had been foreshadowed, 
and he had despised the warning. Yet per- 
haps he was not now awake, and what ap- 
peared so real was possibly but an ugly 
phantom of his dream. A lethargy seemed 
to take possession of him ; presently, however, 
arousing himself, he found Fanny’s head rest- 
ing upon his lap, where she was sleeping as 
children sleep. He bent his worn, sad face 
over the round and rosy child, and stooped 
to kiss her, but she stirred and said, “ Papa, 
happy,” and slumbered on, while he shud- 
dered as if stung to new torture by her un- 
conscious prattle. 

Where was Erminia! He had seen her, 
as in a vision, step from the carriage with 
something of her old pride of bearing, and 
enter the house. Yet where was she now? 
Were there still deeper gulfs of grief for him 
to know? And, while his mind pursued the 


204 


ASPHODEL. 


various roads of misery, the door turned gen- 
tly on its hinges and she stood again beside 
him. 

The new dawn was painting the sky with 
purple, and the moon rays were fading in the 
glory when he looked up to see Erminia there. 
Neither the new dawn nor the fading beams 
were typical of her then. The blaze of noon 
was on her cheeks, and her eyes shone with 
a deep, unwonted fire. 

“ I have come for my little girl,” she said, 
almost gayly. u We are travellers, and we 
sail away for home this morning. Perhaps we 
shall sail forever, she and I; we are looking 
for one — no, no,” she continued, making a 
sign of impatience to herself, “we are going 
home, looking for home. I had almost told 
you a foolish secret. Perhaps you thought 
we were looking for you ! ” And again she 
laughed a painful laugh which echoed through 
the room. 


A WEDDING-NIGHT. 


205 


It aroused Fanny. The child put up her 
arms as if to embrace Erminia, and the little 
gesture seemed to work a sudden change upon 
the spirit of the suffering woman. She knelt 
beside her charge, stroked her hair, and 
looked into her eyes with a mother’s tender- 
ness, quite forgetful apparently of the presence 
of another. Presently she said, “ Fann^, shall 
we be always together, shall we go away again 
together to-day ? ” 

“ 0 yes, with papa ; and let us go far out 
together, far away where we saw the sun 
rise; shall we, darling?” 

At these words the wild light burned again 
in Erminia’ s eyes. She raised them quickly 
and met those of Russell, looking pityingly 
upon her. Then, starting up with a sharp 
cry, she fled out of the room and far away 
from the house, before he thought to follow 
her. 

An hour later they had traced her to the 


206 


ASPHODEL. 


quay, where the sounds of preparation showed 
the hour for the ship’s departure to be near. 
They saw her slight figure rapidly pacing the 
deck, regardless of the busy scene around, 
regardless even of herself, and with the bear- 
ing of one mindful only of the presence of 
a great sorrow. 

“Paga, I must go to her,” said Fanny, as 
he endeavored to restrain his child. “ Will 
you not come too? I love you, papa, but I 
must go with her for she has long taken care 
of me, and you say she is ill now, so I must 
leave you and take care of Aer, if you will 
not come home with us.” 

And, hurrying away from his side, she left 
him no alternative but to follow, and see those 
slender hands once more clasped around his 
little one. But he dared not meet the eyes 
already grown so strange to him. 

“Will you not go, papa?” were the last 
Words ringing in his ears as he turned desper- 


A WEDDING-NIGHT. 


207 


ately from them. For the thought of Amy 
and his wedding-night came now like an 
avenging spirit to tear him from the place. 

He saw the curious harp of a loving soul 
lying shattered before him, and a child play- 
ing with the fragments! For him, the de- 
stroyer, a wild discord rang forever from the 
strings, which no music through all time 
could wholly silence. 

The broad sun had travelled half-way toward 
noon, when Russell reached “ The Rosery.” 
Leaping from the carriage he ascended noise- 
lessly to Amy’s room. At the threshold he 
paused, as if the next breath held his future, 
then knocked and quickly entered. 

It was a spacious apartment, beautiful with 
white and gold, and resplendent still with a 
blaze of lamps. The closed shutters and 
folded crimson curtains forbade the light to 
enter, and no one had been suffered to in- 
vade the silent room. 


208 


ASPHODEL. 


Am y lay on a little lounge, with a table of 
gorgeous flowers by her side which she had 
arranged while waiting for her lover; but at 
length, drawing the white cloak he knew so 
well over her bridal array, she had dropped 
asleep where he found her now, with a flush 
upon her cheek like any tired child. 

His rapid step awakened her. “ Russell,” 
she said, starting up and flinging her arms 
about him with a rapture of utter confidence 
and joy, “you see I have waited for you,” — 
and she smiled gavly as she tried to shake the 
sharp creases out of her beautiful dress. But 
when she spoke her voice came with difficulty, 
and a hoarse cough stopped her speech. 

a O Amy!” he said, his tone sharp with 
anguish, “ have I killed you too ? ” 

She looked at him with surprise, and laid 
her hand upon her side, as if attacked by a 
sudden pain. 

Her piteous look was enough. He took 


A WEDDING-NIGHT. 


209 


her lightly in his arms and placed her again 
upon the couch, where, kneeling by her side, 
he, who had been the pride and worship of 
the world, unveiled the weakness of his un- 
worthy heart before youth’s trusting love. At 
length he ended his confession, saying, with a 
smothered intensity she only half understood, 
“I love you, Amy, as I have never loved 
before, because I know now how unworthy I 
am, how vain and weak ! how little I de- 
serve anything, yet how much you give me 
when you give me all your faith, all — ” 
Seeing no longer through a “ glass darkly,” 
but face to face, and standing as they stand 
forever who have gained the immortal, Russell 
was abased by the remembrance of wrong, 
yet felt himself safe, saved perhaps by Amy’s 
womanly devotion. That was highest to him 
now. He considered no longer communion 
of thought, labor, and aspiration in life as 
the only paths of attainment, but was lifted 


N 


210 


ASPHODEL. 


by the simple devotion of a woman into the 
divine rest and insight of love. He knew 
himself forgiven, — forgiven by both. How 
could he win forgiveness from himself? 

He looked at Amy. She seemed radiant 
with rapture and with peace. Once, a trem- 
ulous flitting shadow passed over her when 
a doubt whispered, He is far above me ; what 
can I give him every day? But again the 
glory irradiated her paleness, and she said 
aloud, “I would live for you, I may die for 
you, Russell.” 


XV. 


SUNSET. 

T TALKETH in hand with the morning 
v Abroad on smiling hills, 

Breaketh with fulness of noontide 
From the cold running, rills, 

Speaketh from clover and pine 
When the odorous winds incline. 


From green and golden meadows. 
From knee-deep asphodel, 

From the awful gray-haired mountain 
And the thrush’s dark-green dell, 
Breaketh one chorus supreme. 

Chant of no wandering dream. 


Breaketh when mists hide the mountain, 
Breaketh when white lilies fade, 

Breaketh when winds tear the rainbow, 
And death hides both lover and maid. 
When the maples and clover die 
And the autumn breezes sigh. 


212 


ASPHODEL. 


Breaketh in silence and shadow, 

Breaketh in glory and gloom, 

Breaketh in night as in morning 
Over the birth and the tomb, 

When we gather flowers to strew, 

And the summers come and go. 

Dost hear it when bells toll the loudest? 
Dost hear it when rain-drops fall? 

When day is but night at its fullest. 
And the soul sleeps under a pall? 

Then listen while grief shall unfold 
The Love universal, untold. 


This chant was one Erminia had framed 
and loved, and its half-concealed meaning 
held an attraction for Russell. The words 
lingered in his memory, and he found himself 
repeating them in mournful cadences, during 
the days of sorrow which came to him, and 
gathering truth and peace from their sugges- 
tions. He could not tell whether consolation 
lay in their melody for those who had never 
known Erminia, but for him, now that his 


SUNSET. 


213 


heart was sad and his footsteps weary and 
unaccompanied, her living faith shone from 
the words upon his spirit, and the Omnipres- 
ence of Divine love became a reality even to 
him, even to such grief as his ! 


Amy had passed the bounds of our mor- 
tality. The fatal dews of that wedding-night 
brought the chill of death to her. The days 
of growth, the weeks of rapture, the months 
of perfect unity, were past. They could lose 
nothing of their permanent beauty, but they 
were beautiful only as the stars, forever shin- 
ing, forever afar ; her airy grace and elusive 
charm, becoming more airy, more elusive, had 
fled at length into memory’s dim chambers 
and become a thing that was ! Later, a ray 
of the great Dawn streamed to him from the 
morning of his beloved, and the crown of 
sorrow rested on his painful head. 

Russell returned to Fanny and his friends, 


214 


ASPHODEL. 


and arrived at the period he had long before 
indicated to Herbert. The time which then 
appeared so short, — the young months of 
married happiness, when the world appears 
new born, and all things moulded to fresh 
beauty for the twofold being to enjoy and 
comprehend, — these few months had length- 
ened, in his fiery experience, till Russell felt 
like one who had almost crossed the gulf of 
Time, and, though still struggling in the 
vast sorrowful tide, believed the shore beyond 
to be his only resting-place. 

Long before, Alice had written to him on 
Fanny’s page, and told him their brief history 
at “The Cliff”; how the child returned lead- 
ing “her darling” by the hand, changed, 
fearfully changed to all except her charge. 
How, when Erminia looked on Fanny, the 
ungoverned fervor of her gaze grew soft and 
melted into tearful tenderness, and the re- 
straint she put upon herself proved often 
too great for her failing strength. 


SUNSET . 


215 


“ 4 She is better to be much apart from the 
child,’ our wise physician said, — and so,” 
wrote Alice, “ it was my sad privilege to watch 
her while the fluctuating waves of life rose and 
fell. One day the fire of her unhinged reason 
seemed to ascend and touch the gates of 
heaven; for they turned suddenly and the 
flame of her being vanished, leaving, to us 
who knew her, only the dim socket and the 
memory of her brightness.” 

That was all. Never a word of reproach, 
never a sound of the truth which Alice must 
know, yet which it would crush him to endure 
from her lips. Only love and silence ! 

Therefore Russell hastened towards u Tlie 
Cliff” once more, and longed for it as the 
weary sailor longs for home. Was he not 
a wearied voyager traversing the vast ocean 
of life’s mystery ? 

Am y’s father and mother returned with him 
as far as the city of their youth, and there 


216 


ASPHODEL . 


reluctantly relinquished his companionship. 
He was to them Amy’s idol, the lamp of her 
happiness, her protector, hers ! Therefore 
they clung to him. He was without fleck 
or flaw in their eyes. They little knew what 
pain their worship gave him, or how his spirit 
was humbled and cast down by their efforts 
for his welfare. They fancied they could 
fathom his grief or measure it by their own ; 
but we move veiled, like the prophet of old, 
and trammelled by the unspoken, the inex- 
pressible, — and the daring one who attempts 
to scale the savage height of another’s sorrow 
only becomes bruised in impotent endeavor, 
and falls, weeping and faint, with his arm 
around his brother, at the foot of the sacred 
Cross. 

They parted then, each bearing a separate 
burden ; the parents never to understand the 
grief of Russell until the veil be lifted. But 
he bore his sorrow as one might hear a most 


SUNSET. 


217 


precious possession, for therein lay the jewel 
which had lighted up the decaying kingdoms 
of his life, realms of riches, all his, to be 
redeemed. 


10 


XVI. 


EVENING. 

npHE afternoon was spent, and the sun far 
descended, when Alice folded her work 
and ran down into the library, determined to 
go to the piano and endeavor to recall an old 
chorale Erminia loved. But as she entered 
the room, she found Russell and Herbert 
still sitting where they sat two hours before. 
They were not talking ; they were rather rest- 
ing like tired soldiers who had suffered kin- 
dred experiences, and to whom the repose of 
evening and the feeling of companionship 
were sufficient for their needs. Fortunately 
she felt their presence before her fingers 
touched the instrument, for she knew those 
saddening strains were not best for either, at 
that time. They needed her with the healthy 


EVENING. 


219 


sunshine she always brought. “ Come,” she 
said, seizing a warm garment from the hall as 
she spoke, to show herself in earnest, “ come 
out to the knoll with me to-night, dear friends, 
where I hear the children’s voices.” 

Her appeal was not one to be resisted. 
They wandered out and climbed the grassy 
height, while the deep orange of the October 
sky defined the piny sentinels on the western 
horizon, and the boundless sea glimmered 
faintly in the east. The almost waveless tides 
washed the silent sands beneath their feet 
gently, as if endeavoring to wash away the 
sorrow of the world and bring it peace. 

Presently through the unbroken stillness 
the children’s voices came to them. They 
had descended and wandered to a farther 
point. But now the increasing distinctness 
of the tones indicated their speedy return 
towards the house over the rocks below. 

“ I sent Ally home,” they heard Ernest say, 


220 


ASPHODEL. 


“ partly because she was cold, of course, but 
partly because I had something to say to you, 
which I thought she would n’t understand. 

I want you to marry me, Fanny, when we get 
a little older ; won’t you, for I love you better 
than anybody else I believe in the wide world, 
and you have no mother and. I will be your 
protector ! Will you promise, Fanny ! ” 

They had been walking apparently just be- 
low where the friends stood, for, as they passed 
on, Fanny’s answer was not heard ; but Rus- 
sell turned in silence towards his companions, 
and, holding both their hands, showed in the 
tears which filled his eyes the speechless grati- 
tude of his heart. 

The tides of time flow swiftly, even through 
what appear the eternities of sorrow. “The 
Cliff” was the chosen abode of Russell. The*" 
subtle quality pervading the household, and 
rendering it a home indeed, reminded him 


EVENING. 


221 


sadly it was not his own. But he lived for 
others now, and Fanny was happy, and shel- 
tered under that kind roof. A sting lay in 
his grief too deep for any consolation of the 
world. The knowledge of his unwithered 
affections, and of a Mercy stronger than our 
weakness, alone* sustained him. 

He said to Herbert one evening, as he found 
himself choosing, in his friend’s company, the 
same path he had often followed with Erminia, 
that his sorrow led him, as the Israelites were 
led with fire by night and cloud by day, out 
of the snares and flatteries of the world. “ I 
believe,” he continued, half veiling his mean- 
ing in the ancient symbol, “ that I live now to 
water the asphodel and to rear it into beauty. 
The spirits who love us are said, you remem- 
ber, to be nourished by this lily. It means re- 
membrance, and remembrance signifies growth, 
to one who has loved truly.” 

Herbert’s answer was scarcely audible. Ho 


222 


ASPHODEL. 


feared to disturb the current of liis friend’s 
thought. He knew there was no happiness 
for a mind like Russell’s in diversion. Med- 
itation and brave companionship with grief 
were alone for him. 

Alice and Herbert made it the loving duty 
of their lives to win back something, if pos- 
sible, of the natural joy of common days into 
the calm of Russell’s existence. They observed 
the method of his daily life was changed. He 
found it impossible to write as usual, and the 
absence of expression was a pain to him. Not 
otherwise could he learn, perhaps, how deep 
the shafts of sorrow may be sunk in the human 
heart ; how the inexpressible remains, forever, 
as far beyond all possible expression as the 
stars beyond the limits of the hills. He grew 
more patient and human, and at length almost 
serene. For out of his new life was born a 
new speech, deeper and more contained than 
the old, rendered near and sacred to all hearts 


EVENING. 


223 


by its humility ; — a speech flowing from his 
presence as well as from his books, for his 
intercourse with men became more simple. 
He could afford to be accessible. “ I have 
loved selfishly,” he seemed to say; “now, if 
any remain who care for me, let me love gen- 
erously, and be thankful for the precious gift 
they bring ! Is not the good-will of my friend 
worth more than the little learning or wit or 
wisdom can be which he may fancy me to 
possess ? ” He could not love his art less ; 
but the pure streams which fill the rivers 
of song were followed more closely by his 
devoted feet. He was no longer cheated by 
the voice of fame, nor by the enchanting 
murmurs of the crowd ; but wherever there 
was sacrifice, or tenderness, or truth, or any 
nobility which touched the hem of Love, he 
was ready, sitting at the feet, and learning 
there with children and with saints. 

Thus the measure of days was fulfilled, while 


224 


ASPHODEL. 


by the good fight of every hour was nour- 
ished the sacred flower which is planted by 
the rivers of the world. One who had pressed 
life’s fading blossoms to his breast, and felt 
their cool frail petals, had learned from them 
that even he and such as he may hear from 
afar the coursing winds as they fan the As- 
phodel, and, listening, know that the true lily 
of love waves forever to the faithful in those 
far, unfading gardens. 


THE ENE 


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